L'Aimant
by GiuliettaC
Summary: A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation - in more than one sense. Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.
1. Chapter 1

**L'Aimant**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

**Author's Note:**

More of these notes at the end, unfortunately! But this was the one I really wanted you to see up front…

"L'Aimant" is a perfume I have known all my life. It was created by François Coty in 1927, reputedly for "the love of his life". Presumably that wasn't his missus, as she divorced him two years later. But it does say a lot for the scent. Its aroma is a mélange of rose, orchid, jasmine, vanilla and sandalwood.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Brookie stood behind the front desk of the Hastings Constabulary, beaming at Milner and Sam. "We've only been and gone and won the pools," he chirped. "A hundred quid! _Would_ you adam-and-eve it? _Port Vale_ drew with Arsenal! I swear the old man's either got RADAR or a crystal bloody ball to pick _that_ combination."

Two incredulous faces absorbed the news, exchanged delighted looks, and began mentally to spend the money.

Meanwhile, emerging from his office with a sheaf of papers, DCS Foyle cocked an ear and an eyebrow. "Hmm? A hundred pounds? That's a very respectable sum. Donation to the Jewish Refugee Fund, don't you think?—Gentlemen? Sam?"

"Oh… Of course… Absolutely, sir." Sam's tone of voice was bright enough, but her face was set with obvious disappointment. _Absolutely? Absolutely NO fun to be had in this war_, she reflected miserably. People stood in dire need everywhere. Silly of her to expect any breaks in the gloom, really.

Foyle read Sam's thoughts in a fleeting glance and smiled down at the papers in his hand. "Oh, and um, Sergeant?" he addressed Brooke. "Hold back a fiver. Enough for a slap-up meal."

"Hooray! Followed by a film at The Ruby!" Sam erupted in a fountain of unsuppressed glee. All across the station concourse, everyone had to smile at the display.

_Patches of colour,_ thought Foyle, _to break up the oceans of relentless grey_. "See to it then, Sergeant." He nodded to Brooke and withdrew discreetly from the celebrations.

Distance. It was the lonely price of holding a position of authority. Of being the "old man".

* * *

Friday couldn't arrive soon enough for Sam. Brookie had booked them all a table at "L'Alouette". Formerly "Benito's", until some drunken lout had lobbed a brick through the window in June of 1940_—"Here's a present for il bloody Duce, mate! Nahahaha!"—_the restaurant still served lasagne and ossobuco when supplies allowed, but the décor now was markedly more French than Italian.

Brooke had also reserved tickets for the 9 o'clock show at The Ruby. There were to be six of them attending: Paul was bringing Edie, Brookie had asked permission to invite his landlady's daughter Florence, and then of course there would be Mr Foyle and Sam.

"What's playing at the flicks this week then, Brookie?" asked Sam, leaning across the front desk to peer at The Hastings Chronicle.

"It's a brand new spy story, Miss Stewart. Hedy Lamarr and Paul Henreid. And _we'll_ be in the dress circle." As if in honour of the posh seats, Sergeant Brooke rose to his full height, brushed down his uniform jacket, and posed there for her appreciation.

"Mind there's none of your usual antics, flicking orange peel over the balcony, then," Sam quipped with a wink. And Brookie fed on it. Oh yes, he fed on that cheeky wink, reflecting that, really, the old man didn't know how lucky he was. If only he'd just open his two eyes and notice what he'd got. Fat lot of good having inbuilt RADAR if it didn't detect women who were obviously sweet on him.

* * *

In the event, the meal had been good—and the wine even better, which was yet another story (_"Eh! Silvia! Pronto! Due bottiglie del miglior rosso per il commissario ei suoi amici"_)—but as for the flicks, "The Conspirators" turned out to be a disappointment in Sam's books. Henreid was no Bogie, and Hedy Lamarr, though decorative, failed to project the lip-trembling vulnerability of Ingrid Bergman in soft-focus. _Ah well,_ thought Sam, gazing along the cinema row, at least Paul and Edie seemed to be transfixed, and Brookie? Well, most of the time he appeared to be looking sideways into Florence's ear, so he would hardly be complaining later about the feeble plot.

Plenty of opportunity, then, for Sam's mind to wander. And wander it did—to her boss in the seat next to hers. The overhead stream of light from the projector gave her a good view of Mr Foyle's hands, folded neatly in his lap behind the trilby perched atop his knees. The creases in his trouser legs were sharp, his nails remarkably neat. If she shifted her eyes as far to the left as they would comfortably go, she could observe his face quite easily without appearing obvious. It was a skill she had perfected over the years of driving him, but on this occasion there was no additional need to keep her eyes on the road. Thus she settled down to make her own entertainment, and what she _did_ observe was rather more absorbing than the flickering images that played before her.

Foyle's gaze was steady beneath hooded lids, and fixed upon the screen. When the illumination from a scene allowed, Sam could just perceive a touch of shadowy beard-growth on his lower cheeks. His lips described a perfectly straight line, framed by a crease from nose to chin which hinted at a smile. His ears were shapely, small and almost elfin, his forehead slightly furrowed from the eyebrows raised habitually in query. The philtrum made a slight depression in his upper lip, and Sam could fancy that she saw a trace of moisture nestling there.

Sam swallowed and admonished herself sternly. This was quite too much! A veritable banquet of movie idols on the screen before her, and all she could do was feast on poor Mr Foyle, innocently minding his own business in the neighbouring seat.

* * *

In point of fact, from Foyle's perspective, the only "business" on his mind was a determination thoroughly to savour the occasion. And as the evening wore along, the definite emerging flavour on his mind was _essence of Sam Stewart_.

Seated inches from her body, he was in prime position to capture her aroma. Not for the first time tonight (caught up by what had, in the course of their outing, become an absorbing occupation), Foyle suppressed his primary senses and settled down instead to exercise his sense of smell.

This aim was rendered easier by the disappointing standard of the film: at best the plot was anodyne; Lamarr was wooden; Henreid was a sop. Though Sydney Greenstreet lent the thing _some_ gravitas, and Peter Lorre mugged in creditable style, the net result was, frankly, _"Casa-Blanda_". All of which released Foyle to affect a stony pose of rapt attention, whilst he covertly applied himself to the fragrant business of detecting… Sam.

His five years spent in an enclosed passenger compartment by Sam Stewart's side had not been wasted. In that time he had learned her scent, and come to know its nuances. Tonight, a different tang was in the air, and if he found it _slightly_ troubling, he nonetheless intended to identify and catalogue the item for his records. Sleuthing was, after all, his job.

Her perfume was no mystery, in fact: Coty's _"L'Aimant_". He knew it well from memory, as a favourite of Rosalind's. At the outset, Sam's wearing of it on their trips had quite disturbed him, but soon enough the scent had settled in his mind as Sam's own. From then on, he simply found it…comforting. The days on which she wore it now were rare. Perfume was in short supply, and therefore, he presumed, reserved for special occasions. Today, he mused, was clearly one of those for Sam.

Nor was her shampoo difficult to place, mainly because the shops had long-since lacked such luxuries. Only that week, he had heard her grumbling to Brooke that Lux Flakes were the only way to wash her hair. He'd loitered, listening but hidden, round the corner in the corridor, back pressed against the wall, smiling to himself as Samantha told her tale of woe: "Imagine, Brookie! Lux Flakes are for _laundry_. And if this war goes on _much_ longer, I'll be reduced to running Sunlight Soap along a cheese grater. Honestly, perhaps I'll just cut it all off and be done."

_Not if I've got anything to do with it. _The next day Foyle had sneaked a box of Lux Flakes into work and placed it in the bottom kitchen cupboard, near the rat poison. "Sam, something has been nibbling at my files. Have a hunt in the kitchen for some stuff to put down would you? Blessed rodents."

It had worked, of course: "Um, Sir? I also found these soap flakes in the cupboard… I wonder if you'd mind…?"

_No,_ thought Foyle, he definitely _didn't_ mind those long, cascading, honey-coloured curls of hair that smelt of Lux. And he would make damn sure she had no reason to cut them off. But there was something more, tonight. A base-note of alluring, sweet and heady skin, intensified here somehow in the upper auditorium of The Ruby. Foyle pondered for a moment and then filed the troubling fragrance under _S_ in his imagination. And though that _S_ potentially could stand for many things, the gentleman in him settled on _"Seductiveness"_.

* * *

The Ruby emptied quickly once the lights went up. Paul and Edie led the way down from the dress circle arm-in-arm. Sam draped her winter coat across her forearm to descend the stairs, and Foyle followed one step behind, bringing up the rear,

Brookie reviewed events so far tonight, and allowed himself a smirk of satisfaction. With Florence now a permanent attachment on his arm, his evening spelt success, and so he could relax and drift back into observation mode.

It was then that he saw solid evidence to convict Foyle: Miss Stewart was delayed by crowds descending, and there he stood, the DCS, behind her, leaning forwards, all closed eyes and nostrils flaring, breathing in her hair. _Caught ya! _gloated Brookie. Tomorrow at the station he would open up a book on Foyle and Sam. The lads were going to love it, no mistake. No matter that they couldn't wager money; they still had enough fags between them for a decent stake.

Though in the past year, air raids over Hastings town had lessened, normal blackout rules were still in force, and the foyer lights were not allowed to spill outside the building. Early November had brought its customary chill to the air, and so the party lingered in the foyer to exchange goodnights.

"Well done, Brooke. Pleasant evening, thank you," nodded Foyle, raising his hat to Florence with a smile.

"Good night, Sir! See you Monday morning then, Miss Stewart," grinned Brooke, and felt a twinge of Judas in his soul. It quickly passed—nothing was going to stop him making book. In any case, he felt as if he were about to do a service to the old man's love life. With all the lads onside, albeit for a pile of fags, the DCS was bound to play a blinder—even score.

"Good night, Sir. Sam." Milner reached out and shook Foyle's hand, and Edie leaned to peck Sam on the cheek. "I thought Paul Henreid was a _dream,_" she said.

"Oh. Yes. Quite nice," said Sam, though really all her memories of the film were Foyle-related.

She stood there next to Mr Foyle, and watched the others go.

"Did you enjoy the evening, Sir?" she asked, quite suddenly subdued and very taken with her shoes.

"First-rate meal," he offered. "Congenial company, and, if I may say so, 'looking very s…splendid tonight, Sam. Um. I should hail a taxi, get you home."

He gestured that he'd help her with her coat, then stood behind her, holding it aloft. Sam turned her head to one side, feeling backwards for the sleeves, and suddenly that scent assailed him yet again. Intoxicating scent of _"L'Aimant_", _Lux_ and Lust. He really should have filed her base-aroma under _L_. Not just imagination, surely, was it?

"A taxi? That would be _marvellous_ sir. It's rather cold to walk." Sam's mood was back on form. Somehow the prospect of a taxi-ride with Mr Foyle had perked her up, and finishing the evening no longer seemed so dull a prospect.

"Be a moment." He turned up his collar and darted out through the foyer doors to find a cab.

A minute or two later he was back, stretching out an arm to usher Sam outside. _In fact,_ she smiled, they'd have to drive directly past Steep Lane to reach her lodgings further out. But Foyle, ever the gentleman, would stay the course to see her home, she knew.

In theory it should have been a fairly speedy journey, but less than a minute after they had settled into the spacious back seat of the taxi, sirens began to wail and the driver pulled over, leaning over the back of his seat to regard them wearily.

"Ride stops here, Guv. Jerry's on 'is way. Hidey-hole's over there." The driver gestured with his thumb, behind them. Sam turned quickly. "Behind the church hall? Come on, Sir."

All three of them abandoned ship and made for the public shelter. It wasn't very full. People were mostly down the cellars in their own homes, or squatting in a shelter in the garden. This shelter's clientele comprised a few unfortunates like Foyle and Sam, "caught on the hop", so to speak. A lantern offered dim illumination at each end, but it wasn't easy to see the faces of the other occupants.

Sam's teeth chattered as she felt for a seat. Foyle followed and sat down beside her, brushing accidentally against her shoulder.

"Chilly night," he said in her ear. "I thought they'd given up."

"Not quite, apparently," she shivered. "Trust Jerry to ruin a nice night out. It's freezing down here." She wrapped her arms around herself to summon up some warmth. He shifted immediately, shrugging out of his overcoat, and made to drape it around her shoulders. "Cold AND cramped," he said. "Wear this."

"Are you sure, Sir? Really? Thank you." Sam was blushing brightly in the dark.

"Over soon, you'll see" he said. And actually, his prophesy came true. In less than twenty minutes the _All Clear_ was sounded, and the shelter slowly emptied of its cold and miserable occupants.

Sam stood and started to remove Foyle's coat from round her shoulders, but a firm hand pressed it back in place. "Keep it on, Sam. I'm wearing more layers than you."

She did a quick mental inventory of her own familiar layers, then imagined his presumed ones, then realised that the situation worked both ways and he must have been making presumptions about her own layers. She blushed again. _For heaven's sake, just drop it, Sam,_ she thought.

Emerging from the shelter, Sam and Foyle made a beeline for the road, but found nothing where the taxi had been parked.

"Taxi driver seems to have hopped it, sir," remarked Sam, rather unnecessarily.

Foyle considered for a moment. By rights, he should have felt some irritation, but somehow he couldn't force himself to mind. In fact, _was there a taxi drivers' benevolent fund?_ he wondered. He might just drop a sixpence in their box some time.

"Well, um…" he supplied, hands in pockets, chewing lightly on his cheek. "No taxis to be had round here. Too cold to walk any distance. Um. Come home with me." It was neither a question nor an order, but a statement of future fact.

Sam stood and made a second inventory of her layers. They started with some recycled parachute-silk and ended several thicknesses later with Foyle's overcoat. So the shiver now coursing down her spine was definitely _not_ a result of the cold. His invitation was entirely matter-of-fact, and thus she reasoned that she only had herself to blame for her silly and inappropriate state of mind.

A deep breath. "That's really very hospitable of you, Sir" she managed. "I accept."

Foyle mused then that the phrase "be careful what you wish for" was the adage of a wise and wary man. _So be it; better finish what you've started, Foyle, _he thought.

* * *

At some point during the air raid warning and its aftermath, Saturday had arrived. So, though only ten minutes later, it was in the early hours of the morning that Sam and Foyle trudged slowly up Steep Lane in silence. Foyle fished the keys out from his trouser pocket, unlocked the front door of number 31, and pushed it open, turning sideways on the threshold to usher Sam inside.

She passed him quickly and stood quietly in the hall.

"Umm. May I take your—my—coat?"

Sam turned her back to Foyle and bowed her head so he could lift the coat away from her shoulders. From where he now stood, he could smell her hair wafting _"L'Aimant"/Lux_ into his nostrils, and though his hands were poised to pull the overcoat away, it somehow never happened.

Instead his hands just rested on her shoulders, and his nose sank deep into her honey-coloured locks. "Sam," he croaked, and turned her gently round to face him.

His action then unleashed a raft of new sensations, for here were eyes like pools of Bournville chocolate, gazing straight into his own. And skin, like alabaster tinged with flecks of cinnamon.

He licked his lips. "Um. Sam, there's something you should know…"

"My guess would be, it's time to drop the 'sir'?" Her utterance was flippant, but her heart was drumming rhythms in her throat.

He gazed at her and smiled, and kissed her.

She took in his scent of Robin starch and spicy aftershave and… Foyle. His lips, two pads of supple, urgent joy, were moist and soft. He shifted, and Sam thought that she would never breathe again.

Except of course she had to, and she did. But not before her hands had risen slowly to his hair and stroked at last the waves that gathered at his nape.

And having breathed, she called him "Christopher".

****** TBC ******

**More Author's Notes:**

Back in the days when I was a spotty teenager, and my female contemporaries were wafting around smelling of "Charlie", "Smitty" and even, gawd 'elp us, "Brut for Men", my own preference was for Coty's "L'Aimant", which had been a popular fragrance since the 1920s.

I rather fancied my prowess in French at the time. I was doing an O-level, and knew the word "aimant" to be the present participle of "aimer"—to love. And so it followed "Loving her" (or him? or it?) was always the translation in my mind. What I never realised, until a few days ago, is that the word "aimant" in French also means "magnet". Clever, isn't it? Two meanings for the price of one, and very apt.

* * *

I had to work a restaurant called Benito's into this. The poor chap really couldn't help sharing a name with Mussolini. But as we know from other episodes of Foyle's War, Italian eateries and their proprietors suffered great indignities and worse during the war. We look at such occurrences with horror now, but a nation never learns. In the last decade, a fish and chip shop in the UK named "Osama's Plaice" was called upon by customers to change its name. Hardly necessary to tell you why, since we all now live in the shadow of Bin Liner. The owner, very rightly, was incensed, but like Benito in my story, he may well have swallowed his pride and gone with the flow. I'd like to think, though, that if Osama _did_ accede, the rebel in him changed the shop's name to "Osama's Pollocks".

* * *

"The Conspirators" was released in October 1944. I have no idea whether it was immediately available in the UK. I suspect not. In those days, movies took a while to float across the pond. We were, after all, a backwater nation, minus fridges. Anyway, the general consensus on release was that it was an inferior imitation of Casablanca. I have never seen the film myself, but if you have, and disagree with this assessment, drop me a line.

* * *

The last recorded air-raid warning over Hastings town was November 9th 1944. It was a Thursday, but for the purposes of the plot, I've put it on Friday 3rd. Worse travesties of fact have happened, and I like to think of the alarm as a sort of parting present from Jerry to Sam and Foyle.

* * *

Hope you've enjoyed the story so far.

**GiuC**


	2. Chapter 2

**L'Aimant**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers* proves to be a revelation - in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.

In this chapter, we're still in the early hours of Saturday morning, 4th November. Foyle and Sam are at Steep Lane discovering each other for the first time.

*see "More Author's Notes" at end

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

**Author's Notes:**

Thanks to my lovely muses, _dancesabove_ and _TartanLioness_ who have nursed me every step of the way through the creative process.

I have managed to retain this fic at **T**-rating, but it was a struggle. For that reason, I've decided to also publish an M-rated version of this particular chapter as a separate fic. Look for it as "**L'Aimant – Chap 2 (M)**" (but you will need to change your search-filter settings to "**Rated - M**" or "**Rating: All**" first).

If you prefer your spectacles un-steamed and stick with this **T**-rated version, you will miss nothing salient to the plot.

I'd like to thank _dancesabove_ for her excellent beta-work on this fic.

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_She took in his scent of Robin starch and spicy aftershave and… Foyle. His lips, two pads of supple, urgent joy, were moist and soft. He shifted and Sam thought that she would never breathe again. _

_Except of course she had to, and she did. But not before her hands had risen slowly to his hair and stroked at last the waves that gathered at his nape._

_And having breathed, she called him "Christopher"._

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Foyle stood in the hallway of 31 Steep Lane, feeding on Samantha Stewart's lips with the grateful intensity of a starving man invited in for supper.

Her hands had just reached up behind his neck to stroke his hair, and the action sent a gentle frisson of pleasure through his body.

To be pressed so close to Sam felt wonderfully comforting. But when she broke their kiss and whispered "Christopher" in an enraptured voice, the pace of their encounter shifted up a gear.

Ye gods! To hear his Christian name from Sam's lips shot a rocket to Foyle's core, altering in that instant every bleak and gloomy prejudice he held about his future. A long-dead section of his brain ignited, pushing powerful imperatives towards his groin. It was a rolling wave of pleasure heading full-tilt for the shore.

Foyle knew full well from memory, albeit distant, the inevitable consequence of such sensations if he didn't act right now, and so he pulled his lower body back from hers. Mercifully, then, the wave subsided.

"Mmm. Christoph..?" Registering the hurried shift in his position, Sam fretted that she had perhaps done something wrong. But Foyle's hands stayed firmly planted on her shoulders as his body drew away.

Their eyes locked, reading possibilities for now, and next, and later.

Foyle's conscience pricked him then. He cleared his throat.

"Samantha," he began—for she never could be simply 'Sam' again to him, like this. And then his troubled conscience forced him to confess.

"Samantha. You... are lovely. I'm... a fraud. I didn't ask you here to… be hospitable". He savoured her full name again: three velvet syllables of longed-for bliss. Then he held her gaze, and waited meekly to be punished and rejected.

Sam broke the heavy silence. "I _had_ already worked that out, you know," she offered lightly, feigning nonchalance. She gave the tiniest of shrugs (lest it dislodge his hands atop her shoulders). "But seeing as I'm here... with not the slightest thought of prosecuting you for fraud... and not a leg to stand on when it comes to honesty, myself..."

He heard this for the pardon that it was. The corners of his lips turned downwards to suppress a smile, his eyes twinkling with affection as Sam fixed him with a gaze both challenging and insolent, her eyebrows raised in expectation. Then her eyes dropped to his mouth and settled there. She licked her lips.

Foyle wasn't one to shrink from challenges – particularly ones issued with such delicious directness - and so he leant in, gamely, to resume the kiss. This time his hands rose to caress her hair, his fingers plunging in amongst her honey curls, thumbs stroking at her temples.

_Need to finish what you've started_, came his inner voice again.

He mumbled through the kiss, "Samantha... Mmwould you…mmconsider coming upstairs with me?"

She pulled away and turned her head to give Foyle's hallway an offhand inspection. "I think it's really rather chilly down here in the hall, don't you?"

It was a blatant tease, and all at once, Foyle recognised that Sam was in the driving seat and had already made a choice of destination for herself.

Nothing in their previous dealings had prepared him for such a reversal of roles, but this was the moment that remodelled their relationship. Her resoluteness lifted a responsibility from his shoulders and absolved him of the guilty role of being her seducer. Foyle chuckled; reached to stroke her cheek. "As ever, you amaze me, Sam."

Sam was briefly proud of getting such a good result with just bravado. She had correctly read the circumstances and detected that her biggest obstacles would be Foyle's sense of chivalry and his burden of authority. Then she'd set out to seduce her man by circumventing one and banishing the other. Now Foyle was at her feet, as sure as if she'd hit him with a dustbin lid.

The "bin-lid" image, cruel though it was, cheered Sam considerably through her nerves. Bravado was all very well, but for the next stage she needed to be genuinely brave—not least because, here, she was entering uncharted territory. Virginity being both the convention and the curse of her sex and generation, she had never seen a man "there", let alone touched one.

But now it seemed that all this was about to change, and as Foyle led her gently up the dozen steps towards the landing, she felt a clutch of trepidation in her belly, as though she were ascending to a different plane.

* * *

The landing of 31 Steep Lane was actually familiar territory. At Foyle's kind invitation, Sam had lodged in Andrew's room for several nights when bombed out of her digs some years earlier. But never had she set a toe inside the DCS's bedroom.

Nor, she resolved, was she about to do so now. In her determined mindset, that world was of the past. Mr Foyle was no more. This man was Christopher.

Foyle halted at his bedroom door and stroked the soft fingers resting in his own. He rubbed his thumb across them, contemplating Sam's pale skin and nails. Then he drew her hand palm-upwards to his mouth, and placed a tender kiss there.

He pulled her gently towards him, and she sank into his arms, their bodies flush from mouth to knee. This time Foyle would make no attempt to keep his distance as the now familiar surge of pleasure filled the length of him. Sam felt the rise against her belly.

Conceding that a watershed had now been reached, Foyle upped the ante. He covered Sam's mouth with his own, pushing gently with his tongue to request access.

Granted entry, he invaded softly, deepening the kiss.

They stood like this some little while, exploring to the limits of arousal, pausing here and there to whisper urgent oaths, and names, and warm endearments.

Eventually the moment came when Sam's knees buckled with the intensity of their prolonged embrace. Foyle, sensing her about to crumple, broke the kiss, gathered her left arm around his neck, then bent his knees and scooped her legs from under her, resuming contact with her lips where they had just left off.

Sam had no time to register surprise at this manoeuvre. Although she had long admired the cut of his suits across his shoulders, it had never crossed her mind that someone barely taller than herself-in-modest-heels could wield such upper body strength and lift her like a rolled-up rug.

But then she had no proper point of reference for the male physique and its potential quietly to astonish.

This gap in her education was shortly to be filled.

With a kind of sixth-sense navigation (Brookie might have called it RADAR), Foyle steered them, blind, in through the bedroom door, still feasting eagerly on Sam's lips as she lay cradled in his arms.

In two or three steps he was at the bed, an eiderdown-topped, neatly-made affair. He stooped to place her gently down upon the quilt, leaning over her to continue the caress.

"So soft…" breathed Sam, and hardly knew if she was speaking of his lips or of the eiderdown. Either way, the epithet was challenged when he climbed up alongside her and pressed his body into to hers. "So firm," she sighed, and turned then to accommodate his form.

* * *

Things started beautifully thus. It was Sam's first time, but Foyle's hands were instruments of worship on her body, and brought her to an ecstasy that drove her into pressing him for more - for everything he had, in fact. Against his better judgement, he complied, expecting to be able to protect her and control the outcome. Keep her safe.

But neither he nor Sam anticipated how their bodies would betray them.

For Sam, the act was ultimately painful, and her physical reaction so intense it caught him unawares, and caused him then to spend inside her when he had intended to withdraw.

To both of them, the fright and the dismay of this disaster were so profound that they were momentarily struck dumb. Then Foyle looked down at her with an expression of mortification, running a trembling hand over his hair.

"Oh, God. _Forgive me, Sam,_" he begged.

"You. Said…s-safe!" gulped Sam, stunned, eyes agog and mouth agape with shock.

Foyle knelt up then, and back from her, his head grasped in his hands. Not only had he just hurt Sam enough in taking her virginity that she had sobbed at the discomfort, but he had also very likely put her in the family way as well. The horror of these realisations warred viciously against his traitorous body, which, physically, was totally relaxed and sated.

They stayed immobile for some time. Foyle was an icon of abject misery, chewing at his cheek with pursed lips, tears welling up. He closed his eyes and reached up to wipe his forehead on his wrist.

But even as he sat there, hoping to be struck by lightning, a pale hand crept towards his thigh and stroked it. "Christopher." The voice was Sam's, a little tremulous, but recognisable now, at least.

Foyle closed his eyes again and moved his hand to shield his mouth. "Darling. Believe me. If I could take it back…" he began, and silent tears of exasperation and remorse came coursing down his cheeks.

"Christopher." Again, Sam's voice, increasingly a voice of calm. "Please don't feel bad." Deep breath, and then more brightly: "I shouldn't think that any harm's been done. And if it has, well, as my father always says, 'fortune favours the brave'!"

It seemed to her that there was still some use for her bravado after all.

Sam's mention of her father did sweet nothing to encourage Foyle. In his imagination, Iain Stewart had him flayed and then castrated, burning at the stake for good measure. But this was not a time to dwell upon his own preoccupations; his concern was, first and foremost, Sam.

"Don't know what to say," he whispered, and then demonstrated fully that he didn't. His face was tight-lipped, stony, still and stricken.

It fell to Sam to make the first move. She reached her hand out, clasping his, and drew him down against her in forgiveness. When he was lying down, she stole into his arms.

And Christopher drew the covers over them in silence, and sank his nose into her hair, and lay awake, still grim-faced, keeping vigil as she slept.

******** TBC ********

* * *

**More Author's Notes:**

_(By all means skip these if I'm being a background bore.)_

Virginity in Sam's day was a Heap Big Deal. As a late baby to a mother born in 1917, I've often listened to my mother on the subject. She scared the hell out of me, I can tell you. Not about the physical side, but about the moral opprobrium suffered by women who were known to have lost theirs prior to marriage. At any rate, the stories worked on me. I bet I was the last of my contemporaries to surrender mine!

Half of me didn't believe my mother. I thought she must be exaggerating. Then, an obituary of one Sarah Baring appeared in _The Telegraph. _This lady had just died at 93. A debutante in 1938, and erstwhile employee at BletchleyPark, home of the wartime codebreakers, she eventually married (and divorced, God bless her!) an aristocrat. Her take on virginity was as follows:

_"Nobody told us anything about the facts of life. We were all ignorant, and if we had known we'd have thought it disgusting. Certainly, I and all my close friends would have considered ourselves defiled if we hadn't come to marriage as virgins. Even after you had become engaged, it made no difference. Virginity lasted right up until the wedding night._

_"My mother had died before I got married, so my aunt, Kitty Brownlow, was supposed to tell me the facts of life. But all she said was: 'Don't worry too much if it hurts—it gets better.' I thought sex was just for procreation. At deb dances there were a few girls of whom we'd say 'They do it, you know!'—though perhaps all they did was cuddle and kiss behind bushes. But even that was definitely disapproved of. I never heard of any pregnancies, and can remember no sex scandals at all. If boys tried to pounce, the word soon got around. They were described as NSIT—Not Safe In Taxis—and girls warned each other to avoid them."_

I showed this to my mum, and she fixed me with one of those "told-you-so" looks that mothers give to daughters.

* * *

Regarding my use of the word "flickers" in the summary: "flickers", as a term for cinema, was somewhat archaic in the UK in the 1940s, but two first-hand sources of mine remember using it or hearing it back in the days. It really harks back to the silent era, but I picked it for its slightly pompous ring – a bit like referring to your old mate Bob as _Roberto _;0)

There's a book called "_I Found it at the Flickers_" written by John Michael Howson – the one review I've managed to find bills it as a nostalgia trip on growing up in Melbourne in the Forties. Indications are that it is out of print, but I would love to get my hands on a copy, so if anybody knows of one, please message me.

* * *

Pedantic point perhaps, but I misinformed you in the notes to Chapter 1 about the date of the last Hastings alert. It was in fact Thursday 9th November 1944. No matter – I would still have changed the date to Friday 3rd!

* * *

I hope you'll stick with me to the end of the story. There may be trouble ahead, but nothing that the two of them can't overcome together.

**GiuC**


	3. Chapter 3

**L'Aimant**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation – in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.

This chapter picks up at 10 o'clock on Saturday morning, 4th November. After a promising start, Sam and Foyle have had a rough night that has left them both smarting, in their own ways.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

**Author's Note:**

Thanks to _dancesabove _for beta-scrutiny.

_**Previously, in "L'Aimant"**_

"_Christopher." Again, Sam's voice, increasingly a voice of calm. "Please don't feel bad." Deep breath, and then more brightly: "I shouldn't think that any harm's been done. And if it has, well, as my father always says, 'fortune favours the brave'!" _

_It seemed to her that there was still some use for her bravado after all._

_Sam's mention of her father did sweet nothing to encourage Foyle. In his imagination, Iain Stewart had him flayed and then castrated, burning at the stake for good measure. But this was not a time to dwell upon his own preoccupations; his concern was, first and foremost, Sam._

"_Don't know what to say," he whispered, and then demonstrated fully that he didn't. His face was tight-lipped, stony, still and stricken._

_It fell to Sam to make the first move. She reached her hand out, clasping his, and drew him down against her in forgiveness. When he was lying down, she stole into his arms. _

_And Christopher drew the covers over them in silence, and sank his nose into her hair, and lay awake, still grim-faced, keeping vigil as she slept._

**Chapter 3**

Foyle woke some hours later, having drifted off in spite of his intention not to do so. On waking, though, he didn't move a muscle. Instead he lay immobile, gazing down at Sam's head next to him, asleep.

He thought it must be getting on for 10 o'clock. Craning his neck backwards to read the Westclox on the bedside cabinet confirmed this.

Outside it was a sunny day. _But no warmth comes from the sun this time of year_, he thought gloomily.

He sighed, reviewing the events of the last twelve hours. Things last night had started very well; beautifully, even, and had developed still better, but then affairs had veered off-course, and ended in distress – for both of them, but particularly for Sam.

Despite his best intentions, Sam had suffered sudden gross discomfort when they'd started making love, and in all the consternation he had panicked, and failed – _he'd FAILED_ – to keep his own body under control and Sam safe. Bluntly put, he had performed like a rampant amateur and let her down badly.

His jaw had a grim set about it as he watched her cradled on his arm. All sensation had died in that limb some hours before, but despite its complete numbness, nothing would induce him to disturb her now. _Inflicted enough damage already, _he reflected.

She stirred and slowly blinked awake.

"Sam? Any discomfort, Sweetheart?" He stroked her hair, brows knitted in concern.

"Mmm. A little." Sam stretched, and scrunched her eyes, and grimaced slightly, as if trying to decide just _how_ sore she was. Then she cast him an apologetic look. "Poor Christopher. I know you think you're quite the villain, but you mustn't worry – these things pass."

She surely hoped they would, at all events. The alternative was rather too awkward to contemplate.

Sam turned into his body, nuzzling his neck and asking for a kiss. "I really wouldn't change a thing," she lied kindly, fingers crossed behind her back.

He let her kiss him for a while, feeling he deserved none of it; then carefully extracted his numb arm from underneath her and threw back the covers with his left hand.

"Going to bring you some tea first, and run you a hot bath later," he muttered.

Feeling the chill against his bare body, Foyle reached for his woollen dressing gown. He gritted his teeth and winced, rubbing at his right arm as it adjusted back to having circulation. A sudden nauseating nerve-assault of pins and needles gripped him. _Suffer, you bastard_, he rebuked himself, dragging the sleeve up his useless arm and heading for the bedroom door.

Sam lay there watching her first and only lover leave the room, and took stock. On the one hand, here she was, relieved of the burden of virginity, and loved, undoubtedly. On the other, she was now, in some minds, "damaged goods" and very probably in trouble, or about to be. And sore to boot. She sighed and thanked her lucky stars it was a Saturday. She wouldn't have to take these worries with her to the station yet awhile.

* * *

Foyle made his way downstairs barefoot, feeling both dejected and half-crippled. His right arm and hand were nigh on useless at the moment. There was no point trying to grab the banister, because he'd lost his grip, and come to think of it, the same was true in other senses too.

As he passed the mirror in the hallway, he could see the sparse remnants of hair on top of his head sticking up at a ridiculous angle. _Move over, Clark Gable_ he thought sardonically, wondering what Sam, with her predilection for suave icons of the Silver Screen, saw in the human wreck staring back at him from the mirror. Dear Mr Gable certainly would not have left her in this mess. _Not Mister Perfect Bloody Gable_.

Shuffling into the kitchen, Foyle tried to pat his hair down with his left hand. _When was this right arm going to stop playing silly buggers?_ Last night, he mused, he'd felt as if he could have shifted mountains, but this morning, knocking the skin off a rice pudding would have been a challenge. Assuming there was rice to be had. Which, hard luck, there wasn't.

Tea preparation was usually a straightforward operation, but proved more complex with only his left hand to call upon. He filled the largish kettle right up to the brim with difficulty, and placed the vessel gingerly on the hob to boil.

Thinking for a moment, Foyle scratched his head in absent fashion, then bent to rummage behind the curtain underneath the sink. Moments later he emerged with a rubber hot water bottle. Then, remembering what else he'd noticed there, he dived back underneath to fish out a battered-looking half-full box of Lux Flakes.

By now the feeling was starting to return to his fingers, but they hurt like blazes, so he sat down at the kitchen table for a moment, cradling his hand and looking miserably into space.

A frantic rapping at the front door broke his reverie, alerting him to some commotion on his doorstep. Foyle pulled the dressing gown around him and strode down the hall to open up and find out what was going on.

There on his top step, clinging to the railings at one side, a scruffy-looking boy of about seven was grinning up at him expectantly.

"Penny for the guy, mister?" The urchin turned his head and pointed down the front steps to a rusty pram. Inside it sat a straw-stuffed effigy of Hitler, easily recognisable by virtue of its pasty cardboard face, lopsided hairstyle, staring eyes, and toothbrush-shaped moustache. Beside it stood an older boy.

"Aaaand... who might you be?" inquired Foyle, taking in the whole tableau and wondering whether he might perhaps have died and gone to hell without noticing it.

"I'm Arthur's bruvver," beamed the door-rapper, pointing at the taller, gangly almost-youth whose job it seemed to be to push the pram.

Foyle took a second look, and thought he recognised the lad. Arthur Reynolds, that was it_._ His father had been among those lost at Dunkirk, back in '40. The boy had been – what – nine, at the time? So his brother must have been no more than three?

Foyle's annoyance dampened down a tad. "Arthur?" He nodded to acknowledge the boy. "Bit old for this type of thing, aren't you?"

"Doin' it for my little brother Charlie, Mr Foyle," the older boy jerked his head towards the urchin on Foyle's step. "He's never seen a firework, nor a bonfire. We're collectin', see. It's fer the war effort. Kind of…"

Foyle stretched his eyes wide in astonishment at the barefaced cheek. _Was that so?_ He folded his arms and fixed Arthur with a look of careful scrutiny.

"Isn't that the _same _guy you were wheeling around last year? You weren't allowed to burn it then, and you won't be allowed to burn it this year. Blackout rules, and waste of fuel. So – help me out here – _why exactly_ are you collecting _money_?"

"We know about the rules, Mr Foyle, but..."

Foyle's face spelt a warning. "Hop it, Arthur, before I put you on a charge: demanding money with menaces." He raised his thumb and gestured to the youngster on his step.

"_Honest,_ Mr Foyle, it all goes in a kitty. Then when the war's over we're goin' to invite people and burn 'im proper and 'ave a knees-up round the fire." The boy hung his head. "Like we used to do when Da... like we used to do before the war."

"Jus' like before 'Itler, Mister Foyle," echoed his younger brother. Foyle sized the child up and doubted he had any memory whatsoever of "before Hitler".

_The stark reality of a world of young boys without fathers_. Foyle stood there on his threshold in his dressing gown, looking down at the cheerful, grimy face. Seven years old, grey socks halfway down his calves, a scabby right knee, and an older brother looking out for him. But no father. Hitler's legacy.

Foyle turned to reach inside the door and picked sixpence out of the milk money lying on the hall stand.

He held it out to Charlie between thumb and forefinger. "I don't suppose," he confided, "that fireworks will be easy to come by, even when the war _is_ over. But if and when you find any, let your brother light them. Oh, and Charlie?"

"Yes, mister?" Charlie grinned up at him, delighted with the sixpence he now clutched inside his grubby palm.

"Rockets and Roman candles are the best." Foyle turned then to step indoors, nodding a faint smile at Arthur, who grinned back up at him and raised his hand. It struck Foyle that the lad looked older than his dozen-or-so years, and if it meant so much to him to put a match to Hitler come the war's end, he really shouldn't begrudge a sixpence here or there.

Even as the boys resumed their slow ascent of Steep Lane, pushing Herr Hitler in his chariot, and Foyle had managed to get one bare foot back inside his own front door, the shrill voice of a neighbour from along the street assailed his ears.

"Late night, I see, Mr Foyle?" The older woman looked him up and down as she passed downhill, appraising his scant attire – dressing gown, bare feet, no visible pyjamas – and delivered a judgmental glare.

"Police work, Mrs Evans. Mind your step, now." _In case you break your neck on the way down,_ he added, sotto voce. Then, he stepped inside and closed the door against the world.

* * *

By now the kettle was whistling frantically on the hob. Foyle turned the burner off underneath and poured some water in to warm the teapot. _For Samantha's tea_, he thought.

It occurred to him that the fire in the living room would need some encouragement, so he busied himself to coax a blaze out of the glowing remains of coal from the previous evening. _Can't have her cold today_.

Then he walked back to the kitchen, emptied the warmed teapot, and spooned in the tea-leaves.

_Water's gone off the boil. Just right for a hot water bottle._ He filled it, taking care to burp the air out of the top before screwing in the stopper. _This will do her good._

He lit the gas again and brought the water back up to the boil, then filled the pot and let it stand while reaching down two cups and saucers from the cupboard. _Milk in the jug. She takes two sugars. Not much of that left. I'll just drink mine without._

Foyle prepared a tray – pot, tea-cosy, jug, bowl, cups and saucers, tea-strainer – and tucked the hot water bottle underneath his arm. Negotiating stairs with all this stuff reminded him of when Rosalind was ill. Endless journeys upstairs with his hands full, hoping each time he would find her better. Then finally they'd taken her to hospital, and it was over quickly. A long while ago now, but in many ways time had stood still for him. Nothing in his heart had stirred in all these years for women. Until Sam. _What if I've ruined things_? The thought tormented him.

* * *

Upstairs, entering the bedroom, Foyle could see that Sam had snuggled down again beneath the covers in defence against the cold. He cleared a space on the dressing table and deposited the tray.

Sam's nose poked out from underneath the eiderdown. "What was all the commotion downstairs?" she asked.

"Penny for the guy, and a nosy neighbour," he explained. "Sorted both out. How d'you feel?"

"Tickety-boo," she lied. Then, hopefully, "Is that the tea?" She made to sit up, but he reached and pressed her down, lifting up the bedcovers and sliding the hot water bottle underneath.

"Mmm. Lovely," she said. "I'm spoiled."

"Stay there until I've lit the gas fire. Don't want you cold." He bent to see to business, and soon some warmth was building in the room.

"First things first," he said. He walked around the bedroom picking clothes up from the night before, and set them on a chair. Then he opened up the closet, looking for something she could wear. Delving far into the back, he found a satin, quilted dressing gown of Rosalind's, untouched for a decade. _Not such a good idea,_ he thought. _Stupid and tactless. Find something else._

He lit upon his own spare dressing gown: soft elephant-grey wool with a rope-cord belt. Not the height of glamour… but warm. Of course, Sam could wear a sack and look… _Enough of that_. He fished it from the closet and took it across to her.

"Maybe not your colour, but it should keep out the cold." Foyle twisted his lip into a half-smile, waiting for her to sit up in the bed, holding up the dressing gown in preparation to sweep it round her shoulders.

"I say! Just like last night at the air-raid shelter!" she observed brightly, then surfaced from under the bedclothes like Venus rising from sea, bare-breasted and with tousled honey hair.

Foyle's breath caught in his throat. _Mustn't start with _this _again._ He moved solemnly across to drape the dressing gown around her, concentrating on the task, deliberately not lingering or meeting her gaze.

Sam wasn't having that. "Christopher." She sought the eyes that avoided hers.

"Hmm?" Foyle was making an elaborate meal of tucking the dressing gown around her without actually touching any part of her skin.

"_CHRISTOPHER."_ She caught his head in both hands, shrugging off the dressing gown impatiently, and turned his face towards her. "Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Stop not touching me."

He blinked between her hands and chewed his lip, still trying to evade her. "Can I pour your tea now?" His tone was stubborn.

So was Sam. "In a moment. Kiss me first."

"Sam… I..."

"Do it." Insistent Sam.

So he sighed, and bent his head, and did it, and it was a delicious feast of more forgiveness, lasting long enough for Sam to haul him out of Purgatory.

* * *

Sam surfaced from the kiss and beamed, contented that finally the atmosphere was healed. "Just the job. So – tea then?" She reached behind her for the dressing gown she had cast off earlier.

"Right away, milady." Foyle rose to do the honours, his step regaining something of its normal spring.

They drank their tea together sitting on the bed, Sam wrapped in Foyle's spare dressing gown, cuddling her hot water bottle. The tea was a little stewed, and not as hot as it might have been, but neither of them minded much.

When Foyle had put their cups back on the tray, and finally found some slippers for himself and Sam (on whom his house-shoes looked like boats), the time had come to talk and sort things out.

"Sam, listen. Whatever happens, I'll look after you." He held her hand. "If you'll let me, that is." Chewing at his lip again. "Considering my record isn't brilliant to-date."

Sam rested a hand atop his thigh. "What happened was a silly mishap, Christopher. I had no idea my body would react that way, and nor did you. I'm sorry it upset you so."

"_You're_ sorry? I think you have the situation somewhat skewed."

"The way I see it, this is neither 'you' nor 'me'. It's _us,_" she reasoned. "I had a shock, and so did you. It's over now. The body heals." She stroked his leg.

"You hope," he offered ruefully, then mentally kicked himself.

"Yes, of course, I hope. But on the other hand, if… anything… should come of this, I'll love… it… as part of you. You see?"

A ball of heat rose in his chest and crept up to settle around his ears. Behind his eyes, a tingle started up. His lip and inside-cheek were taking furious punishment. He was fighting for composure.

"Christopher?" her hand reached out to rest upon the furnace of his nape. He bowed his head and turned to her, and bent and sank his head into her lap.

She held it there. They sat a while.

* * *

Some moments later Sam made to rise, easing Foyle's head gently from her lap. "Christopher, I just need to go…"

"Mmm? Oh. Of course. I'll clear this stuff away," he murmured.

Sam disappeared into the bathroom and Foyle gathered up the tea-things, taking them downstairs.

Back in the kitchen, he placed the crockery in the sink, carefully straining the dregs into a jug and preserving the tea-leaves. You never knew where your next quarter-pound was coming from, _but how bizarre to bother at a time like this._

Feeling a certain urgency himself, he walked across the kitchen to the door which led into the garden. Outside, finding a convenient bush hidden from the prying eyes of neighbouring houses – _police business, Mrs Evans_ – he relieved himself. As often was the case in these situations, philosophical thoughts drifted through his brain. _Miracle of evolution_, he mused, looking downwards. _Practical, distracting, and downright bloody dangerous._

Moving back indoors, he washed his hands underneath the tap, then turned and spied the battered box of Lux Flakes he had fished out earlier from underneath the sink. He'd actually been saving those to soak his socks, but they were needed now for better things, so it was no contest. Picking up the box, he headed back upstairs and knocked on the bathroom door.

"Sam? You all right in there?"

"Um. Probably," she ventured. "I think I've spoiled your dressing gown."

"Doesn't matter," he shot back, just a little too fast to hide his agitation.

There was silence for a moment. Then inspiration hit him. "Sam, there are – um – some… things of Rosalind's… in the cupboard next to the washbasin if you need… But – perhaps you'd like a bath first? Will you let me in?"

"Just a moment, Christopher." He could hear some rustling noises behind the door, and then the bolt was drawn back slowly.

She was standing there, a bit self-conscious, wrapped in his dowdy dressing gown, belted with a rough cord, looking like a dishevelled angel in an army-blanket. "Christopher, I think probably the bed as well…"

"Couldn't matter less." He stroked her shoulders. "Now then," brightly, brandishing the battered packet of Lux Flakes. "I hear that these are just the ticket for washing… hair… and things."

Sam looked at him suspiciously. "Did _you_ hear me complaining to Brookie about having no shampoo?"

"Might've done." He pushed one hand into his dressing gown pocket and assumed a look of innocence.

"You LET me find that box of Lux next to the rat poison… _Christopher!_"

"Possibly had a little bit to do with that." He started swinging the arm inside his pocket, and cocked an eyebrow at her.

"GIVE me those!" She snatched the box from him with a giggle of delight. It was the song of the river where he went to fish.

Foyle steered her gently back inside to perch upon the lavatory seat in her dressing gown. _I can put this right_, he thought.

* * *

The bathroom was pleasantly warm from the hot water tank adjacent. Dashing outside to the airing cupboard, he returned with some towels and a facecloth. "Hold these a moment," he instructed, resting them on her knees, and turned to fill the bath, opening the hot tap full flow.

"Honestly Christopher, I can do that..."

"You could, but I'm your humble servant." He shot her a conspiratorial grin. "Would _madame_ like some bath salts?"

"Haven't seen any in so long, I can barely remember what they are. But, yes, if you've got some, that would be nice." Sam sat there, feeling strange, not really used to being waited on.

But Foyle was in determined pursuit of luxuries to throw into Sam's bath-water. _Back of the cupboard somewhere. Rosalind always kept some… there they are._

"_L'Aimant_," he announced, squinting at the label, and emptied the entire jar of powder into the water. "Your favourite, I think."

"Christopher, I don't think you're supposed to put the whole…" She might as well have saved her breath. He was a man on a mission. "…and we're only supposed to have five inches of w – "

"Well, if we both use the same water, we can have _ten_ inches. You can go first," he grinned.

"But you'll smell of roses too," she reasoned.

"Always been my ambition," he quipped, "but I'm in a dirty job."

Sam laughed and thought he was the most adorable thing she had ever known.

******** TBC ********

**Author's Note:**

Foyle's assumption in this chapter that Sam's idol, Clark Gable, was a more prudent man than he in the contraception-department would have been erroneous. Actress Loretta Young's "adoption" of a child was widely reported in 1937, but in fact the child in question was her own biological daughter, and Gable's illegitimate child, born two years before. Ever the considerate and supportive lover, Gable had tried to pressure her to abort the child, but Young, a devout Catholic, dug her heels in.

If Gable and Sam _had_ ever got together, and "the worst" had happened, as indeed it did with Loretta Young, I like to imagine Iain Stewart, in his dog-collar, picking Gable up by the lapels and shaking him until his sticky-out ears rattled. It's unclear whether Foyle needs to worry at the moment ;o)

More chapters coming soon.

**GiuC**


	4. Chapter 4

**L'Aimant**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation – in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.

This chapter continues late Saturday morning, 4th November. Sam and Foyle are back on track for enjoying a cosy weekend at 31 Steep Lane. But first, Foyle has to venture out for some essential supplies.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

**Author's Note**

Thanks to _dancesabove _for beta-editing x.

**Previously, in "L'Aimant"**

_The bathroom was pleasantly warm from the hot water tank adjacent. Dashing outside to the airing cupboard, he returned with some towels and a facecloth. "Hold these a moment," he instructed, resting them on her knees, and turned to fill the bath, opening the hot tap full flow._

"_Honestly Christopher, I can do that…"_

"_You could, but I'm your humble servant." He shot her a conspiratorial grin. "Would _Madame _like some bath salts?"_

"_Haven't seen any in so long, I can barely remember what they are. But, yes, if you've got some, that would be nice." Sam sat there, feeling strange, not really used to being waited on._

_But Foyle was in determined pursuit of luxuries to throw into Sam's bath water._ _**Back of the cupboard somewhere.**_ _**Rosalind always kept some**_… _**there they are.**_

"_**L'Aimant,"**_ _he announced, squinting at the label, and emptied the entire jar of powder into the water. "Your favourite, I think."_

"_Christopher, I don't think you're supposed to put the whole…" She might as well have saved her breath. He was a man on a mission. "…and we're only supposed to have five inches of w _– "

"_Well if we both use the __**same**__ water, we can have __**ten**__ inches. You can go first," he grinned._

"_But you'll smell of roses too," she reasoned._

"_Always been my ambition," he quipped, "but I'm in a dirty job."_

_Sam laughed and thought he was the most adorable thing she had ever known._

**Chapter 4**

In his earlier hurry to duck back indoors (away from being disapproved of in his dressing gown by Mrs Evans), Foyle had neglected to pick up the milk from the front doorstep.

This omission he now remedied, since late breakfast for the pair of them was now the order of the day.

They had both enjoyed the comfort of a deep and steaming bath, Sam first and then himself, but they had been quite shy of each other. He had withdrawn discreetly from the bathroom while she bathed, returning at her call to take his turn at relaxation.

On his return, he was surprised to find her hair still dry. "I would have helped you wash it, if you'd called," he said. There was a certain longing in his voice.

Privately Sam thought that, had she actually dipped her head in water filled with such a quantity of bath salts, her hair might have dissolved. Instead, she'd wrapped her locks up in a towel and soaked, up to her armpits in the fragrant water. It had been divine. The hair could wait till later, after all.

Returning to the bedroom cocooned inside a large bath towel that Foyle had brought for her, Sam draped the now partly-laundered woollen dressing gown over a wooden chair, and placed it, back towards the fire, at a safe distance. _It probably isn't ruined after all, _she hoped.

Both of them dressed at last, and decent for the latish morning hour (the clocks now read half past eleven), Foyle and Sam were seated at the kitchen table to begin a conversation that took stock of their affairs.

"My landlady is staying at her daughter's," Sam supplied. "I shan't be missed." It was mild enough, as hints went, but to Foyle it was a welcome confirmation of his own wishes: Sam would spend the weekend here with him.

He reached his hand across the breakfast table, covering hers. "I was hoping you would stay with me as long as you possibly could," he said softly.

Sam was bright of manner, but practical. "Sunday evening I shall have to go back," she observed. "I have no clothes for Monday, otherwise."

"Makes sense," said Foyle. And then they both sat, silent for a little while, each taking in the implications of a Monday back on duty, now that their working world had been turned upside down.

* * *

They cleared away the breakfast things, Sam placing them in an enamel bowl inside the deep kitchen sink. As she stood there, preparing to wield the wooden-handled dish-brush, Foyle's arms stole round her from behind, encircling her waist. She felt him rest his cheek against her hair.

"O kitchen sprite, you have bewitched me," he whispered.

"Have I really? Hmm? So you're under my spell, are you?"

"Totally and completely." He tightened his grip and kissed her ear.

"Right-oh! In which case I command you to finish the washing-up." She reached down to her waist and poked the dish-brush into his hand, turning in his arms to plant a solid kiss on whatsoever she encountered when she turned. It happened to be his chin.

Foyle was smiling too broadly to take proper advantage of this opportunity, and was still grinning like an idiot when she wriggled from his grasp and stalked off into the living room.

"Make yourself at home, why don't you?" he called after her wryly.

In truth it was a wasted trip for Sam, who had merely been practising coquettishness. Once she had left the kitchen, and was out of sight of Christopher, she found that she was bored. She wandered back again soon afterwards, to see how he was getting on.

He was standing at the sink, shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, an apron tied around his waist, head bowed over the task in hand. She gazed at the short and greying chestnut curls above his nape, and the sinews of his forearms flexing as he scrubbed lightly at the breakfast plates and cups.

"Christopher, I absolutely _don't _want to go out," she said suddenly.

"You don't… want? _What_ don't you want?" He asked absently, wondering quite where that idea of hers had come from.

"You were probably going to invite me out to dinner tonight. I don't want to go."

"You don't?" There was a hint of worry in his tone, but he trusted that Sam would eventually clear things up enough for him to make out what was in her mind.

"No. I don't. I don't want other people milling round us, making us self-conscious. Is that bad of me?"

"You mean you don't want to be seen with me?" His back was to her, so she couldn't see his lip quirk upwards as he phrased the question.

"Noo! Oh, _no,_ Christopher! That's not what I meant. I mean, let's stay in. Just us." Sam rushed up and threw her arms around him, so now their original positions at the sink were exactly reversed.

Foyle dropped the dish-brush and grasped both of Sam's hands around his middle. "So. Let's get this straight: just you and me, indoors all weekend with – I don't know what – mouldy rabbit stew? Whatever's in the pantry? Won't be much. I haven't done the shopping in a week…"

"No food?" she fretted.

"Not a lot," he declared. "So maybe you should make a list. You'll have to send me into town."

"Alone? You'll manage?" Sam looked quite alarmed to think of Foyle running loose, doing his own shopping.

"Sweetheart," he told her kindly, "I've managed on my own for over ten years."

* * *

It was almost one o'clock when Foyle walked down Steep Lane and into HastingsTown. In his hand he held a sturdy leather carrier containing two string bags. Sam's ration book and shopping list were in the pocket of his overcoat, but there was a separate item on his own agenda that he would be buying first.

* * *

George Street was busy on a Saturday. People were forced to leave the pavement and walk right in the middle of the street over the cobbles. Foyle made his way past Woolworth's and Sayer's Milliners, tipping his hat to Miss Chance through the window, and on down to the chemist's.

Firm in his mind was the preoccupation that, in case the horse had not already bolted in the contraception stakes, he ought to buy some johnnies.

Entering Timothy Whites & Taylors, Foyle saw to his dismay that the pharmacist was already busy with another customer, which left him no other option than to approach the lady assistant.

The badge on her immaculate white coat read "_Mrs Hutton_". She was a vision of sophistication, standing crisply behind the fine cosmetics and perfumes arrayed along the counter. Good-looking, tall, well-spoken. Flawless skin. Hair pinned up into curls atop her head, clear varnish on her nails with whitened tips. Foyle could no more ask her for johnnies than belch in her face.

But even as his nerve faltered, Mrs Hutton's quiet elegance put a lovely "Sam" idea into his head, and he asked to make a different purchase. "I don't suppose you have…" he named the fragrance.

"_L'Aimant_? Actually, sir, yes we do have some. Perfumes by _Cot__**y**__," _– she stressed the latter syllable – "have been rather scarce since the Occupation. But now that Paris isn't under Hitler, a few of the old favourites have begun to filter through again." She bent to reach under the counter and pulled out a squat, trapezoid bottle of amber liquid, with a square glass stopper and an oblong gold cartouche affixed below the neck.

Foyle thought that Sam would certainly adore it, and felt quite smug as he took out his wallet to pay. "Excellent, thank you. Would you wrap it carefully for me?"

"No trouble at all, sir."

* * *

_No closer to getting a rubber hat on it, though, are you? _Foyle reminded himself as he left the chemist's shop. After the disaster of their first attempt at making love, he was determined that the same mistake would not be made a second time. Considering Sam's persistence on that first occasion, he concluded that, when she actually _did _recover, the chances of her taking "no" for an answer next time would not have increased by much. It was therefore his duty to be prepared.

A new idea came to him, and he turned and headed for the nearest red-and-white-striped pole. _All men in there, _he reasoned. _So you can't go wrong. _

Foyle stepped inside the barber's and removed his hat.

"Afternoon, Mr Foyle!" came a cheery voice. Its owner was a thin man, about 60, with a shock of snowy hair.

"Afternoon, Bertram. Wouldn't normally expect to see you open at this time."

"Normally I'd close at one, but business is brisk today, and I'm me own boss, after all. So just this once I'll be closing at half-past two."

"Glad to have caught you, then."

Bertram glanced up quickly from his current gentleman and sized up the situation without further prompting from his latest client. Foyle's hair was closely cropped, and he had shaved very recently.

"Something for the weekend, sir?"

"If you wouldn't mind – um – don't let me interrupt you…"

"No trouble at all, Mr Foyle. Excuse me for a tick, Fred."

Moments later, Foyle emerged from Bertram's shop with a hefty load off his mind. Tucking his and Sam's insurance policy into his inside pocket, he headed off in search of food.

* * *

The shopping list Sam had written him was quite a long one. Having inspected the contents of the pantry, she had definitely concurred with his assessment that the cupboard was, quite literally, bare.

Armed with Sam's list, and the steely determination of a wartime housewife, Foyle headed for the grocer's. There, using both Sam's coupons and his own, he acquired one fresh egg, one packet of egg-powder ("makes 12 eggs"), 8 ounces of sugar, a bit of margarine, a little butter, cheese, flour, pudding rice, and a loaf of bread.

Never having been a fancier of chocolate, Foyle's ration book was full of coupons for the stuff. Sam's, he noticed, was quite empty on that page, from which he was well able to deduce that his young lady had a taste for something sweet. So before he left the shop, he added to his pile of goods an 8oz block of Cadbury's Bournville. _To match her lovely brown eyes_, he reflected, dropping the coveted bar into his bag.

At the greengrocer's next-door, he bought, off-ration, carrots, onions, potatoes, dark spring greens and apples. As an afterthought, he added something called a mangel-wurzel, just because he thought the name and shape might tickle Sam.

The leather carrier was fairly full and both string bags were now a-bulge, the fresh egg carefully wrapped and balanced on the top of all the other purchases. _Sam's Sunday breakfast,_ he told himself. _Boiled egg with soldiers. She can dip them in the yolk…_ His imagination then conjured up a sunny Sam dunking thin strips of buttered bread into her sunny egg, and suddenly the cold November afternoon started to resemble in his mind a warm spring day.

* * *

His final errand took him to the butcher's, where he found a line of patient women queuing up to worship at the shrine.

The etiquette in butcher's shops had altered since the war. Any person wandering in, requesting this or that, was largely met with laughter or derision. Instead, the usual form of greeting was: "Good morning, Mr So-and-so, what have you got in today?" to which the butcher would reply along the lines of: "I can let you have…"

All butchers nowadays were demi-gods. But for all his power to feed or to frustrate the masses, Mr George Harris was known to be benevolent in his dealings with his customers, and looked to help them all as best he could. Things usually worked out well, and regulars _chez Harris _ were rewarded with the opportunity to buy a half a pound of sausage (off the ration) or an extra pot of dripping for their gravy or their toast.

Gladys Harris was a sharper, less accommodating person, quite keen on her exalted position as the butcher's wife, and invested with an urge to find out other people's business.

"Shopping for two today, Mr Foyle?" she asked archly, as he handed across his ration book and Sam's.

"As you see, Mrs Harris." Foyle's curt response was firm enough to stave off any further questions, but as the woman turned to snip the coupons from the pages with her scissors, she took what time she needed to absorb the details inscribed upon the front of the second ration book:

_Stewart, Samantha Evelyn, Miss _

_Date of birth: 12/06/18._

_Hastings_ _address. Feeding a young woman twenty minutes away from her own doorstep, is he? Well, I never._ Gladys pursed her lips, squirrelling the information away in her mind for future reference.

Foyle was too engrossed with _Mister_ Harris and the wrapping of his purchases to register the woman lingering to read the cover of Sam's book. He therefore left the shop unworried, and relieved to have inside his carrier the basics for some decent home-cooked meals.

It was half past three when, laden with his three bags, and his pockets full of perfume and insurance, Foyle trudged back up Steep Lane and home to Sam.

******** TBC ********

**Author's Notes:**

In my mind, Sam's birthdate has to be the 12th of June. That online horoscopic oracle, _birthdaypersonality dot tumblr dot com,_ designates 12th June "the birthday of realistic positivity".

Just right for Sam, I think. Things are always going to be tickety-boo with her, and even if they aren't, she'll stickety-boo a plaster over things and carry on regardless. That's our Sam.

No idea if Sam has a middle name. Anyway, I chose Evelyn for her. "Evelyn, it's one of those names isn't it? I had a cousin Evelyn, you know. He was in the Guards…. Only for two weeks." (OK, this isn't _my_ joke – it belongs to a friend of mine called Hilda, but I like to borrow it once-in-a-while).

* * *

Dates of birth only appeared on children's ration books, but I allowed myself this bit of licence on the grounds that Foyle was cradle-snatching.

* * *

Cosmetics and perfumes during WW2 were rationed only by price and availability. Most working women would've had to be happy with a sixpenny splash-it-all-over bottle of lavender-water or lily-of-the-valley from Woolworth's. Whilst _L'Aimant _wasn't a scent of the same calibre as _Chanel No 5 _by any means, it was nevertheless considered an elegant fragrance, and its _eau de toilette _was sold in the same price-bracket as Yardley's perfumes. It would have been worn by respectable women of Sam's class who were aspiring to be elegant whilst holding down a job or running a home. No change there, then, girls. ;o)

* * *

Women in provincial towns would have bought their perfume over the general goods counter at the chemist's shop, from the pharmacist or his assistant. I have no idea whether there was really a branch of Timothy Whites & Taylors in Hastings at the time (there was definitely one in Sutton, London), but these chemist/hardware-shops-combined were pretty widespread, so I allowed myself the indulgence of putting one in George Street.

* * *

More soon.

**GiuC**


	5. Chapter 5

**L'Aimant**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation –in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.

This chapter continues mid-afternoon, Saturday 4th November. Foyle has been out shopping for essential supplies and has now returned to Steep Lane, and to Sam.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

**Author's Note:**

_dancesabove _is my beta. I'm a lucky girl.

* * *

**Previously, in "L'Aimant"**

"_Shopping for two today, Mr Foyle?" she asked archly, as he handed across his ration book and Sam's. _

"_As you see, Mrs Harris." Foyle's curt response was firm enough to stave off any further questions, but as the woman turned to snip the coupons from the pages with her scissors, she took what time she needed to absorb the details inscribed upon the front of the second ration book: _

_Stewart, Samantha Evelyn, Miss _

_Date of birth: 12/06/18._

_Hastings_ _address. Feeding a young woman twenty minutes away from her own doorstep, is he? Well I never. Gladys pursed her lips, squirrelling the information away in her mind for future reference._

_Foyle was too engrossed with _**Mister** _Harris and his purchases to register the woman lingering to read the cover of Sam's book. He therefore left the shop unworried, and relieved to have inside his carrier the basics for some decent home-cooked meals._

_It was half past three when, laden with his three bags, and his pockets full of perfume and insurance, Foyle trudged back up Steep Lane and home to Sam._

* * *

**Chapter 5**

"Christopher, this is the _perfume!" _Sam's voice was thrilled as she stroked the fancy bottle perched atop her palm.

"Yes, that's right. Your favourite," nodded Foyle, parking his trilby on the coat-stand.

When Sam had padded shyly into the hall to greet him on his return from shopping, his first move had been to reach inside the pocket of his overcoat. Carefully, he'd retrieved her special parcel and placed it in her hands. Sam had looked at him with a quick "For me?", and when he'd nodded, she had opened the packet on the spot.

It was hard for Sam to rationalise her feelings when he walked in through the door, but they ran along these lines: a new relationship, and the first time they had been apart from one another since it started. What if Christopher had thought better about them in the hours when he was out? On the plus side, here was evidence that he had thought of her romantically whilst going round the shops. That at least was good, wasn't it? On the other hand, was this a consolation present? Something to soften the blow…?

Now she pursued him to the kitchen as he struggled down the hall, three bags of groceries dangling from his arms. Sam insisted eagerly, "No, but _it's the_ _perfume!_"

Foyle wondered briefly whether Sam had got her needle stuck in the proverbial groove. She seemed to be repeating the same phrase. It wasn't making any sense to him.

Noticing the puzzlement on his face, Sam supplied the missing information: "This isn't just _eau-de-toilette, _this is the _perfume_ – concentrated. Golly, Christopher, this must have cost an absolute fortune! Honestly, you shouldn't have."

The penny dropped with Foyle, and understanding dawned that he had given her a special thing she'd never owned before.

"I'm glad you like it, Sweetheart," he replied, stroking her arm. A warm sensation flooded through him, every bit as potent as he judged the bottled fragrance must be.

Sam started to relax a little. This was not _I'm glad you like it. But I think that we should talk…_, this was a simple show of pleasure in her gratitude.

Foyle leant to kiss Sam on the cheek. "How were you then, while I was gone?"

Sam started to recount the last two hours. "I tidied round, and found some fresh sheets in the airing cupboard." She paused a moment there, and a blush crept up her cheeks as she continued, "Oh, and – um – the 'phone went once. I almost _did _ignore it, Christopher, but you see, I thought it might have been important."

In fact, Sam's thoughts had turned to Andrew when the phone had rung. Squadron Leader Andrew Foyle – God-knows-where, now that he'd left Debden. If there were any news, his father would expect to know immediately.

"Of course. And so you answered." Foyle's prompting nod was gentle, but a prompt nevertheless.

"It was, um, Sergeant Brook." _That's torn it now, _she thought. _He's going to be angry that I answered._

Foyle took a breath and sucked his teeth. "I see. Well, Brook's on duty this weekend, of course. He wanted… what?"

He didn't ask how Sam had managed to explain why she was answering his home-phone on a Saturday. He didn't doubt that she would tell him in her own good time.

Sam started brightly: "He really just rang to let you know that an official letter had arrived. From the Jewish Refugee Fund, thanking the Hastings Constabulary for their kind donation."

The slightest shadow crossed her face. "He… was quite surprised to hear my voice, I think." _Go on and tell me I'm a silly goose for picking up the phone, _she thought.

Foyle rubbed his cheek. "Yes, I imagine such a thing might just provoke some gossip at the station."

"Christopher, I – really didn't want to lie," said Sam.

"Of course you didn't."

"But I lied _a bit,_ though."

Foyle had to raise his hand across his mouth to shield the makings of a smile from Sam.

She shrugged. "I told him you'd taken pity on me – put me up when our taxi abandoned us after the air-raid alarm – and that this morning you invited me to stay and share a bit of lunch." She heaved a sigh. "So there we are. We talked a bit about the raid. Apparently, there wasn't any damage to the town."

Foyle saw an opportunity for gallows humour. "You lied. 'A bit'? Let's see, Miss Stewart: the first part wasn't quite accurate, was it? If anything, _you_ took pity on _me_ when you came back here last night. And secondly, you – um – omitted certain _salient_ details from your statement. So let's hope you never have to rely on it in court." His eyes twinkled as he leant towards her, hands in pockets. "Might harm your defence."

"Christopher, don't be annoying." Sam was flushed. The joke had fallen flat. _But at least if he can pull my leg, he might not be that angry._

Foyle switched to sober and apologetic. "Sorry; copper's habits. Brook didn't ask to speak to me directly, then?"

"No, I used my shipshape office-manner, and he was quite happy for me to pass on the message." She frowned. "It would have been quite awkward if he _had_ insisted though, wouldn't it? Oh Lord! I'm sorry, perhaps I never should have answered. But I was worried that it might have been some news of Andrew."

She swallowed. "Christopher, this is a big mess, isn't it?" _Go on and tell me what a fool I am, _ she thought.

"Could've been a mess," he conceded. "In the event, it isn't, but it seems the devil is in everything today." At this, he could've kicked himself, because Sam started, very quietly, to cry.

Foyle leant to gather her into his arms and shushed her, though she wasn't actually making any noise. "Sam, I'm sorry. I'm an insensitive beast. None of this is your fault. _None of this._ Come on, forget it all for now."

He tried a primitive distraction tactic: "Anyway, just look at what I've got here…" Foyle bent to pull the bar of Bournville chocolate from his bag, and brandished it.

The sight of such a treat was just the ticket when it came to hauling Sam out of the dumps. She wiped her face with almost businesslike precision, and gave a gasp of genuine disbelief. "Where did you...? How did you know I love this more than Dairy Milk?"

"I guessed a certain level of sophistication," he waved the bar above her head to tease her, and was rewarded with a ruthless tickle in the ribs which brought his arm down low enough for Sam to reach the chocolate.

She hugged him then around the waist, resting her head on the shoulder of his waistcoat under his unbuttoned coat and jacket layers.

"You're absolutely right," she said. "I should forget it. And I'm quite too tired and overwrought to worry now, in any case."

Finally reassured that their relationship was still on safe ground after a potentially dangerous two-hour separation, she felt she could indulge her tiredness, and yawned.

"_You're_ tired?" Foyle felt a touch of martyr coming on. His hands and arms went wide in mock-exasperation. "_I've_ been down the hill and back up again carrying three bags of heavy groceries. Not to mention braving a queue of very warlike ladies at the butcher's. This old man's weary too," he added soulfully, a shameless play for sympathy.

"Oh, _you_! You're _not _old." Sam drew one hand from round his waist and shoved him lightly in the chest.

"Oh, and I've also brought you a mangel-wurzel," he said.

_Perfume _and _chocolate, _and _a mangel-wurzel. He thought of me in every single shop, _she reasoned happily. _What was a mangel-wurzel anyway?_

Foyle slipped a finger underneath her chin, raising it gently for a kiss, and in that moment, he knew he was a lucky man, although in many ways he felt more ancient than the pyramids.

* * *

The afternoon had darkened quickly into evening. Sam and Foyle had eaten neither lunch nor tea because their only appetite had been for kisses. Once all the groceries were safely stowed inside the pantry, they had installed themselves upon the settee opposite the fire, and set about resuming their acquaintance.

At some point they had both dropped asleep, exhausted from the various problems of the day.

Around six, Foyle had stirred. He woke to find himself reclined on the settee, his head supported by the armrest. Sam was draped along the length of him, her head nestling just below his neck, her left hand at his collar. He tucked his chin in tight, the better to examine her from what was quite an awkward angle.

Foyle smiled, inhaling deeply. Taking in her scent of comfort and desire, he felt a glowing sense of satisfaction. He was reminded of those lucky days down by the river – days when he'd landed something special for his supper. On one occasion there had been an eight-pound bream – it measured more than twenty-seven inches. Its flattened, high-backed body had been bronze, and shone like burnished metal. And having carefully measured it and weighed it, he had held it in his hands and felt the raw power in its streamlined body.

Then he'd let it go. It was magnificent. Far too extraordinary and rare to be wasted as a trophy on the likes of him.

Now, here was Sam. All youth, and verve, and vigour, honey hair, and passion. Was he allowed to keep this one? The old familiar pang of guilt was gnawing at him. _Not for you, you bloody fool. You should have let her swim._

Some movement from the human quilt atop his body announced that Sam was waking up.

"Mmmchristopher?" Her hand was stealing up around his neck before her eyelids even opened. "Have we been sleeping long? What time is it?"

"It's – um," he turned his head to read the clock, and as he did so, felt a kiss creep up and plant itself on his left cheek.

"I like it here," she said, and stretched herself along him, flexing like a feline on a hearthrug.

"I can tell you do." Foyle sensed that there would be arousal issues if he didn't move, and quickly. "Sam.."

"Mm?"

"Sam, it's six o'clock. We probably should cook some dinner. You've had no food since breakfast. So now – _ungh!_" with superhuman effort he removed himself from under Sam, and left her sprawled unceremoniously the length of the settee.

Foyle headed for the kitchen, ignoring Sam-shaped sounds of protest from the living room, and walked into the pantry.

Years as a widower had taught Foyle all of the survival basics. It was second nature to be cooking his own meals, and, in earlier years he'd provided for Andrew also. But in no time Sam was with him in his larder, squeezing insistently into the confined space, like a fresh ingredient in a hackneyed dish.

They stood together choosing what would go into their meal, reaching around and over each other with comfortable murmurs of "let's see…" and "how about…" It felt unusual and nice.

In no time they had assembled the simple components for making toad-in-the-hole: flour, powdered egg, salt, milk and sausage.

Wartime sausage was generally regarded as a mixed blessing. On the one hand, sausages were off the ration, but on the other, their meat constituents were often suspect, and they were always rather heavy on the bread-content. As a result (and very much depending on the _bona fides_ of the butcher), sausages tended to diminish in size by between a quarter and a third once they were cooked.

Thus, when Sam and Foyle eventually sat down to attack their supper, there was a certain air of disappointment. "My toad has shrunk!" complained Sam, utterly sincerely. And Foyle had to agree that it was a sorry sight, compared to its plump promise at the outset.

Nevertheless, with baked apples to follow, and squares of Bournville chocolate to tempt Sam at the end, the meal finished on a high note and they retired to the living room to sit before the fire and listen to the wireless.

The prospect of a second night together had hovered in the backs of their minds throughout the day, but once their evening meal was over, the matter could no longer be ignored.

Leaning against Foyle on the settee, Sam broached the subject first. "Christopher, the thing that happened last night…" she began. "You mustn't think it's put me off for good."

He stroked her arm gently. "I shouldn't blame you if it had," he said. "But I intend sleeping in Andrew's room tonight."

"No, please. I couldn't bear it. I still want you close," she pleaded.

Foyle loved the proposition, but was sceptical of their ability to stick to any rules. "Bad idea," he countered tersely, "because we've already proved who's boss in that arena. And it turns out to be you." _It's no use thinking that the johnnies in your pocket make much difference, _he thought. _After last night's débâcle, nothing's guaranteed._

"Well, would you rather that I left, then? Since obviously I make things _difficult_?" Sam's voice was hurt and huffy, but he noticed that she didn't move a muscle as she lay against him.

He closed his eyes and stroked her hair. "Nope. Since you ask. I'd much sooner you stayed. I'm even ready for a life of difficulties, if they come wrapped up like you. But I've learned my limitations. 'No' isn't an easy word for me, when you say 'please'. Or even if you pout and huff."

"I'm pleading and huffing _now_ and you're not having the slightest trouble saying 'no'," observed Sam, pertly.

"Yep, but upstairs with you in my arms is an entirely different matter. Besides," he continued mischievously, "I'm not as young as I used to be. If we had a repeat of last night, I'm not sure my poor old ticker would be up to it." Foyle opened one eye a crack, squinting down to gauge her reaction at his ham performance.

"Is this how it's going to be from now on, then?" sighed Sam. "Every time I want my way, you'll play the Poor Old Man?"

"Pretty much. It's my only defence against determined young ladies."

They slept in separate rooms that night.

******** TBC ********

* * *

**More Author's Notes:**

Mangel-wurzels are like swedes. Mainly used as cattle-fodder, but (surprise-surprise) they ate them as a table-vegetable in the war.

...

More soon.

**GiuC**


	6. Chapter 6

**L'Aimant**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation – in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.

The story continues at 31 Steep Lane on Sunday morning, 5th November. Foyle wakes up in bed alone, having slept separately from Sam.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

**Author's Note:**

I make a reference to the ARP and AFS in this. The abbreviations stand for Air Raid Precautions and Auxiliary Fire Service respectively. To learn more, read up about _The Civil Defence Service_ on Wikipedia (or watch Bill Pertwee on _Dad's Army_ ;o).

...

As late as the 1930s, latex condoms actually _leaked_ when filled with water.

...

Re the writing: it goes out questionable, _dancesabove_ betas it; it comes back publishable…

* * *

**Previously, in "L'Aimant"**

_"Well, would you rather that I left, then? Since obviously I make things __**difficult**__?" Sam's voice was hurt and huffy, but he noticed that she didn't move a muscle as she lay against him._

_He closed his eyes and stroked her hair. "Nope. Since you ask. I'd much sooner you stayed. I'm even ready for a life of difficulties, if they come wrapped up like you. But I've learned my limitations. 'No' isn't an easy word for me, when you say 'please'. Or even if you pout and huff."_

_"I'm pleading and huffing __**now**__ and you're not having the slightest trouble saying 'no'," observed Sam, pertly._

_"Yep, but upstairs with you in my arms is an entirely different matter. Besides," he continued mischievously, "I'm not as young as I used to be. If we had a repeat of last night, I'm not sure my poor old ticker would be up to it." Foyle opened one eye a crack, squinting down to gauge her reaction at his ham performance._

_"Is this how it's going to be from now on, then?" sighed Sam. "Every time I want my way, you'll play the Poor Old Man?"_

_"Pretty much. It's my only defence against determined young ladies." _

_They slept in separate rooms that night._

* * *

**Chapter 6**

**Sunday, 5****th**** November 1944**

Foyle awoke in Andrew's bed at around seven on Sunday morning. It was still dark outside, and the room was cold. He lay there for a short while, putting off the evil moment when he would have to slide a toe out from under the covers and feel for his slippers underneath the bed-frame.

He reflected on the previous evening: the caresses he had shared with Sam on the settee, and the small victory of sense prevailing this time round. It had felt bad to quash her romantic and unlikely notion of a night together in the same bed, wrapped somehow chastely in each other's arms. But his genuine distress at the discomfort she had suffered on their first occasion had left him nervous of being drawn into making love to her a second time. This wasn't lack of ardour on his part. Rather, it was fear he'd be unable to control its intensity.

He imagined Sam was sound asleep in the main bedroom still. The night had safely passed, and with it, he presumed, any further risk of disaster. So Foyle was starting his morning with a positive disposition, and with every expectation of surviving through to evening without causing Sam, or himself, any further trouble. And, naturally, he was looking forward to a day spent with a very lovely young woman, who appeared to dote on him.

Life, bluntly put, was sweet. But in his mind, a pre-condition of that sweetness was his own restraint around his eager and persuasive younger lover. In many ways, the happenings of their first night had left him far more vulnerable than Sam. Whilst she seemed eager to forget and try again, his faith in his ability to control the repercussions of his passion was severely shaken.

Here, in Sam, was something precious that he treasured, and his fear of causing damage far outweighed his natural instincts. Though those instincts were, in simple terms, to make unbridled love with this extraordinary woman who so effortlessly robbed him of his self-restraint, he was hoping, _praying,_ that his higher functions would prevail until he felt a little braver.

Prepared, and steeled, to meet the challenge of the day ahead, Foyle fumbled for his dressing gown and sallied forth like Captain Oates into the icy wilderness, intending to be gone some time.

After a quick visit to the bathroom to relieve himself and briefly splash his face to life with water, he wandered downstairs to stoke the coal fire in the living room and put the kettle on the hob to boil. Padding back upstairs again, he crept into the main bedroom. Sam was still fast asleep, her peaceful face framed by a halo of blonde locks on the pillow. He paused to take in the vision before him, a tender look upon his face, then he bent and lit the burners in the gas fire to banish the November chill.

The kettle had begun to sing, and called him to the kitchen. _This is becoming a regular routine,_ he told himself, catching sight of his reflection once more in the hallway mirror. The gaunt and miserable countenance that had returned his gaze just yesterday, seemed now to be a calmer, more collected (if somewhat stubbly) human being – with just a smidgeon of a chance of restoring dignity and order.

The tea prepared, Foyle carried the familiar tray into the main bedroom. Placing it on the dressing table as he had done the day before, he crossed the room again and knelt beside the bed.

"Morning, Sweetheart," he lowered his lips to whisper in Sam's ear. She stirred, and he was rewarded with a glimpse of her brown eyes peeping open sleepily to meet his own.

"Izzitdaytimealready?" slurred Sam, blinking in the dullish morning light.

"Just before eight," replied Foyle softly, then added "Rise and shine. Tea up!" He pushed himself up from the floor, switched on Sam's bedside lamp, and walked across the room to pour the tea.

Sam rose to sit upright in bed. He gazed at her across the bedroom, thinking how her hair shone in the lamplight, and taking in the striped flannel pyjama jacket she had worn to bed. _Must've gone through my chest of drawers, h_e smiled to himself. _Not a soul has done that in above a decade._

* * *

"The cup that cheers." Foyle slid the welcome brew into Sam's waiting hand and gave her a look of warm admiration that melted her insides. She stretched her neck up towards him, seeking contact.

"Do I get a good-morning kiss?" she asked.

"Certainly, madam. All part of the service." Foyle lowered his mouth to hers and nipped gently at her lips for a few seconds before pulling away. "Drink up, before it gets cold."

Foyle settled into the armchair near the window and sipped from his own cup, enjoying the sensation of the hot, refreshing drink.

Sam observed her lover over the rim of cup and saucer, taking the measure of the day that she supposed in store. Foyle was smiling as he watched her, all benign and loving – this was good. Annoyingly, though, he was sitting all of eight feet away. Last night had also been a washout from the contact point-of-view. No cuddles, no shared bed, and separate rooms! True, this morning he had pampered her with tea in bed, and shown consideration in his actions by warming up the bedroom – but he'd granted her no physical embraces other than a – what to call it? – 'prolonged peck' on the lips.

Sam's powers of deduction therefore told her that she'd been assigned short rations for the remainder of the day – which, incidentally, amounted to the rest of their precious weekend together.

This sorry state of affairs was not, she decided, compatible with her own agenda. Since rising above their first painful tumble, she had made a resolution, as it were, to climb back on the horse and ride again. Moreover, her soreness had subsided overnight and she was very eager for a chance to erase that miserable memory and forge a happier one in its place.

Something told her, though, that the direct approach she had originally employed on Foyle – demanding and cajoling – would not work this time around. No; if she were going to break down his resistance and engineer a better outcome, her approach today would need to be more subtle.

With this in mind, Sam set about planning a scheme for her day – and a theme for Christopher's.

* * *

"Gosh, I appreciated that. Thank you, Christopher. So thoughtful," chattered Sam, placing her empty cup and saucer at the bedside.

"Care for another one?" asked Foyle, reaching for the woollen-cosied teapot.

"No, thanks. I rather think I'd like to wash my hair, if that's all right with you?"

"Be my guest. Bathroom's yours," said Foyle. "I'll clear these things away, then when you're finished I'll come up and shave." He hauled himself out of the armchair and turned to gather up the tea-things.

"Right-oh, then!" Without further ado, Sam leapt from the bed. In that instant, as Foyle turned to leave the room, he saw she _wasn't _wearing the pyjama trousers which would have lent some common modesty to her outfit. Unprepared for this, and, registering her slender limbs, revealed up to the thighs by her semi-undressed state, he lost hold of the tray.

"Whoops! Butterfingers!" cried Sam, bounding back across the bedroom. Her unfettered haste did nothing to conceal the pale, sleek beauty of her bare legs as she ran.

That was enough. First, the tea-strainer toppled to the floor, as did one cup, a saucer and a spoon. The sugar, milk, and teapot, plus the second cup and saucer, were, happily, saved in time.

"Whoops again!" said Sam, grinning up at Foyle from his waist-height, where she'd landed from her earlier leap. Her hands were on the underside of the tray, supporting it. From where he stood, Foyle had a prime view of her breasts down the gaping neck of her (or his) pyjama jacket. He couldn't stop a sharp intake of breath.

Eventually he cleared his throat. "Don't worry. Um, I'll sort this out. You go and wash your hair," he said.

"Right-oh!" she rose before him slowly, making sure he didn't miss a thing. Once she had left the room, Foyle tore his eyes back to the task in hand and bent to gather up the broken pieces. Then he straightened up and walked, stiff-legged, from the room.

* * *

He had barely reached the kitchen when he next heard Sam's voice, calling from the bathroom.

"_Christ_-o-pherrrr, I wonder if I could borrow you for a moment…?"

Up the stairs he went, and hovered at the bathroom door. "Should I come in?" he asked.

"Yes, please. Oh, this is proving awfully awkward." There was the slightest note of irritation in her voice.

Foyle stepped into the bathroom. "How can I help?" he said.

There stood Sam, wrapped in a bath-towel. All bare arms, legs and shoulders, bent over the washbasin with a beaker in her hand, hair dripping wet, a mass of sodden blonde locks.

"I've tried to manage," she implored. "My landlady has a rubber shower-attachment, but there's nothing like that here. Please, would you help?"

"Um, yes, I'll do my best," he said. "Where, um, are you up to?" He approached the basin tentatively, drawing close behind Sam.

"Soap. The Lux Flakes next." She gestured blindly to the side, where stood the battered box of soap flakes from the day before.

"Right. I've got it," Foyle assured her.

"You'll need to get a handful of the flakes, and work them into my hair, pouring water over with the beaker," she explained. "I'll stay bent over with my head held down."

"Right," said Foyle, a little tightly, reaching for the box.

Soaping Sam's hair turned out to be a contact-sport involving far more body-parts than just her scalp and his fingers. In order to achieve the correct angle and leverage, Foyle was obliged to lean forwards over her body as she was arched over the basin. Inevitably, his groin made contact with her bottom, and the effect on him was sudden, causing him to swallow hard and pull back half a step.

Beneath him, Sam was smirking under soapsuds, and took the opportunity to adjust her footing, deliberately wriggling her bottom. "Oops! So sorry. Almost lost my balance there," she lied.

Foyle was biting on his lip by this stage, trying to ignore both his speeding pulse and a certain swelling problem. _Christ!_ he admonished himself. _Not even started breakfast and she's got you at attention._

He stood behind Sam, a condemned man, massaging soap-suds into her hair with one hand and dispensing water from a beaker with the other. Even as he felt the frisson of his hand caressing her delicate scalp, he was fighting the emergence of the BlackpoolTower between his legs. By the time they had completed a second rinse with clean warm water, he had just enough time to quickly push a towel into her hands and flee the bathroom, with the parting lame excuse: "Um – need to check the breakfast. You can finish on your own now, can't you?"

She may have answered, but he didn't hear, because in seconds he was down the stairs and at the kitchen sink, shoving his head under the cold-water tap.

Upstairs in the bathroom, Sam towelled her locks, and shared a Victory V sign with her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

"That was really helpful thank you so much, Christopher!" she called down to Foyle as she crossed the landing to the bedroom.

"Welcome." came the muffled, strained response from Foyle, drying his face with the dishcloth.

* * *

"Christopher, your hair's wet. And, oh dear, you haven't had a chance to shave yet," Sam observed as she entered the kitchen fully dressed ten minutes later.

"Well, um, if you've finished up there now, I'll just…" Foyle pointed to the ceiling and withdrew upstairs to shave.

When he returned, there were five separate bits of bloody tissue-paper sticking to his chin and cheeks where he had cut himself.

"Oh, Darling, you were clumsy," commiserated Sam, as she reached to stroke his cheek.

"Um, yes. I couldn't seem to keep a steady hand," Foyle passed the matter off and glanced around, reviewing his earlier breakfast preparations. "So, then!" he clasped his hands together firmly, in an effort to shake off the shakes. "I'm going to make some toast and a soft-boiled egg. _You_ can have the egg." He stroked her shoulder.

"_Nonsense,_ Christopher, we'll share it. It'll be fun! I'll make the soldiers!" Sam jumped up from the table to take charge of the toast, while Foyle set their one precious fresh egg to soft-boil on the hob, keeping a close watch over it.

_Right. Things are bound to settle down now,_ reasoned Foyle.

He had reckoned without Sam's provocative approach to egg and soldiers. If narrow, buttered strips of toast could ever be said to hold erotic associations, Sam's actions were the living evidence. Foyle sat in muted thrall and watched her, languidly dipping soldiers into her soft-boiled egg. The sunny yolk ran down the sides of the eggcup, and as Sam raised each strip of toast to her mouth, licking the butter from her soft lips, Foyle was at pains to keep control beneath the kitchen table. He quite forgot to eat his share of egg.

"Aren't you hungry, Christopher?" Sam leaned, concerned, across the table to offer him a bite of buttered soldier.

_Starving_, he whimpered inwardly_._ "Um… er, no, not very," was his actual voiced reply.

She watched him rise and move towards the sink, plate and cup in hand. He appeared to be moving slightly awkwardly, with a trace of a limp.

"Christopher? What is it?"

"Um – nothing. Just a twinge. It'll wear off."

_Not if I can help it, _thought Sam brightly, and took a sip of tea.

* * *

Sam's campaign of torture stepped up after breakfast when they moved into the living room. Foyle was treated to a vision of her, arched over forwards in front of the coal fire, tossing her still-damp honey locks back and forth until they dried. He sat behind her on the settee, chewing absently on the corner of the large Sanderson's chintz cushion he was holding in his lap.

They listened to music on the Light Programme after lunch, and Sam curled up against Foyle on the settee, toying with his shirt buttons. Things stayed fairly calm until Sam complained of feeling chilly and slid from the settee onto the hearthrug, tugging him down alongside her.

It was around four o'clock, the daylight all but gone, and they fell to reminiscing about Bonfire Nights that they remembered from before the war. Foyle was sitting with his legs tucked away to one side, gazing at the fire, and Sam was leaning against him.

"People have so little pleasure these days," she said, stretching herself the length of the rug and sinking down to lay her head sideways in his lap. She was facing towards his middle, and Foyle's hand caressed her hair.

"As a little girl, fireworks fascinated me. My father used to make me hold my mother's hand and stand at a safe distance while he let the rockets off. On the run-up to the big day, he used to store the ones he'd bought in an old biscuit-tin down in the cellar. He said you had to always keep them cool or they might explode."

Foyle was silent. Sam's hand moved to stroke his upper thigh, her fingers pushing in between his legs. Her face was inches from his lap. His breathing quickened and his knees began to fidget.

Sam giggled at a reminiscence, squeezing the muscle of his inner thigh, and formed another lazy question: "Christopher… what are the ones called that erupt in a fountain of sparks and shoot fizzing missiles up into the air?"

That was the straw that broke the camel's back for Foyle. His hand came down and rested solidly upon her arm.

"Enough now, Sam." It was a quiet admonition, but a firm one. Grasping her by the shoulders, he lifted her up off his lap and laid her carefully down on the rug, leaning in over her and peering candidly into her face. She was immobilized beneath him. "You have been teasing me ALL DAY," he growled softly. "_What_ do you want of me?"

"You know perfectly well, Christopher." Sam's answer had an air of studied calm. Her face was serious now. Pinioned beneath his body, _still _she had the upper hand.

"Sam," he pleaded. "Help me not to do this, hmm?"

"Not on your nelly, Sir." Sam's eyes were steely.

"So that's it, then? No mercy? No compunction?" Foyle's face was a panoply of martyrdom.

"Absolutely none. And if you _must_ know," she continued, "I'm really pretty browned off with you at the moment."

"You… you _are_?" Foyle's eyebrow spelt surprise – he'd thought _himself_ the injured party.

"I am. Let's just see why, shall we?" Sam lay completely slack beneath him, and, ignoring Foyle's face, inches from her own, enumerated for the benefit of the ceiling: "You make love to me; leave me in an altered state – not entirely sure HOW altered yet; then you agonize over it all day, making me worry about you; then you kiss me senseless for an afternoon; then you tell me that it's all too much, and make yourself scarce in a separate bedroom; and _then_ you spend all day treating me like the virgin I no longer am. Yes, Christopher, I'd say I'm _jolly well_ browned off."

Foyle heaved a sigh, and pushed himself up on one elbow. After a beat, he moved and hovered his face over hers so that she could not avoid his eyes.

"Sam," he pleaded, "Darling, understand how afraid I am to make you hurt like that again. I thought I knew what I was doing. There was never anything like this with Ros – " He stopped dead, cursing himself for the gaffe.

"With Rosalind. You can say it." Sam paused a moment, then continued gently: "Christopher, it's nice that you were happy with your wife. But I'm concerned with now, and with the future. I don't want to leave your house this evening with just last night's tremendous upset as a memory. I want us to have put things right before I go." She took his free hand in her own. "And by the way, I'm not sore anymore," she told him.

"I see." He chewed his lip. "Glad to hear it." He kissed her hand. "But the other thing, of course, is safety. If by any chance we cheated Fate last night, I wouldn't want to tempt our luck a second time."

Sam's annoyance returned suddenly with a vigour. "Christopher Foyle, you were in town for two-and-a-bit hours yesterday. Do you seriously mean to tell me that you came back here _without_ a pocketful of serviceable johnnies?"

Foyle was so taken aback at her frankness that he didn't even bother skirting round the issue. "Um, well of course I, um, bought some. But they can't be totally relied upon, you know."

"Christopher," – Sam was calm again, and confident, reminded of her father's special fondness for empirical evidence – "think _very _carefully now: what did you and Rosalind use _after_ Andrew, _your only child,_ was born?"

"Johnnies."

"There! I rest my case! Now PLEASE will you make love to me again before our Sunday's well and truly over and I have to go?"

Foyle sighed and reached to stroke her hair. He had fought a doughty battle, but was helplessly besotted in defeat.

"As my lady wishes. Just one small problem with your logic, though…"

"And what's that, Darling?"

"You didn't ask me what we used _before_ Andrew was born…"

* * *

Thus, Foyle exposed the faulty reasoning in Sam's deductions. But, as often was the case with Sam, some extra bit of information up her sleeve made all the difference to an argument.

In her view, Christopher's distrust of contraceptive sheaths, although quite understandable in the circumstance of his personal experience, was quite likely to be out-of-date.

"Christopher," she took his hand, and peered up at him earnestly, "you know, everything's improving all the time, isn't it? Even johnnies. And if it weren't for improvements in, um, science, I wouldn't even be here, would I?"

"Don't quite follow."

"Well, when I had the anthrax, I would have died if not for strepto – "

" – mycin. Yes. Oh Sam, I thought that I would lose you." Foyle embraced her and brought her head to rest on his shoulder.

"Well, you got that new medicine for me. And it wasn't even known about three years ago, was it?"

"It wasn't."

"Well, if medicines have come on so much in the last _three_ years, how much do you suppose johnnies have improved since before Andrew was born?"

Foyle had to smile at her now-incontrovertible logic. He held her for several minutes, calming his own thoughts, then kissed the top of her ear and whispered, "Be right back."

Outside, in the hallway, he delved into the inside pocket of his overcoat, still hanging on the hall-stand, and retrieved a couple of packets of insurance.

* * *

Sam had made a nest of cushions on the hearthrug. Every piece of stuffed chintz and chenille from around the room was assembled there. The curtains of the living room were already drawn against the blackout, and the table lamps and standard lamp were lit.

Foyle reclined on one elbow, facing the glowing fire, and drew Samantha to him so that they lay spooned together. "Roman candles," he said.

"Pardon, Christopher?" Samantha waited for the rest.

"The fireworks that shoot fountains of sparks and fizzing missiles," he continued. "You asked about them earlier. Called Roman candles."

"Yes, I _like_ those" said Sam. "My father would put on a grand display every year at the vicarage for the parishioners, and we always used to have some of those."

"My favourites, too," said Foyle.

"It must be six years since I've seen one. Hitler's really spoiling all the fun." She paused. "Sorry. That must sound so selfish and silly."

"Well, you might also want to add that he's destroying lives across five continents, and giving every one of us a glimpse into the mouth of Hell…" Foyle held her close, inhaling through her hair. "But 'spoiling all the fun' is on his list of crimes as well. And so we can't have that. Suggest we engineer our own display."

"For the parishioners?" Sam was smiling.

"For the ornaments," said Foyle. With a quirk of his mouth, he added wryly, "I wouldn't want your father's congregation watching anything that we're about to do."

* * *

**Chapter continues after…**

**this Author's Note:**

I haven't written all the detail here, because this is a T-rated fic. If you're curious to "know the blow-by-blow", change your search filter settings to "**Rated - M**" or "**Rating: All**", click **GO**, and you will find a supplementary fic entitled "**L'Aimant – Chap 6a (M)**". Nip across and read it if you like. It's not essential to the plot – just a little incendiary action in honour of Bonfire Night, but eventually it brings you back to where you are now, so that you can continue reading with the next chapter.

If you prefer to skip erotic detail, just keep on reading here…

**End of Note.**

* * *

They made love on the hearthrug before a blazing fire, with a layer of flimsy latex for insurance and the upstairs eiderdown for warmth when Sam's flank began to freeze on the side furthest from the fire.

It was fun, and loving and, reassuringly, quite comfortable for Sam. Foyle felt the love and comfort with her, melding them together in shared ecstasy, and banishing the painful memory of their troubled first experience.

Sam bound him to her with a fierce determination, and Foyle's mind, detached above the paroxysms of completion that shook his body, acknowledged she could truly read his every thought.

* * *

Minutes after, as she lay wrapped in Christopher's arms, Sam stirred beneath his snoozing form, and sniffed inquiringly. "Christopher? Christopher! Can you smell something burning?"

"Mmm – what? Oh, NOT the bloody eiderdown!" Foyle shot up from the hearthrug like a scalded cat to stamp barefoot on the corner of his smouldering quilt.

This impromptu and undignified dance, punctuated by little cries of _Ouch! Damn! _caused Sam to erupt into giggles

"What's so funny?" he growled, rubbing at soles of his bare feet. "It's the only one I've got to fit the bed, and _you'll_ be sleeping under it."

* * *

And so Encounter Number Two ended with a minor bonfire on the hearthrug, narrowly avoiding intervention from the ARP and AFS.

But on the whole, allowing for the awful smell of singed and smoking duck-feathers, there was a new-found calm about the couple as they kissed and dressed and kissed again. It seemed as if some bargain had been sealed about their future.

* * *

Around six, they roused themselves and cooked their evening meal, sharing a simple dinner round the kitchen table. They ate with just their forks, so they could continue to hold hands throughout the meal.

At nine the time arrived for Sam to return to her digs. Foyle summoned a taxi to convey her home, and rode with her in the rear of the car, sitting sideways-on, his arm extended along the back of the seat, just as he often did in the Wolseley.

Mindful of appearances, Sam sat straight-backed, facing forwards, and held her hands immobile in her lap.

When they arrived outside her lodgings, Foyle reached down for Sam's hand and raised it to his lips. "Tomorrow, business as usual. Don't be late, Miss Stewart."

"You can rely on that, Sir."

When she withdrew her hand to leave the taxi, he felt a tug inside himself, as if a little piece of him was leaving with her.

"Lovely girl, Guv!" offered the cabbie amiably once she'd gone, looking through the rear view mirror at his remaining passenger.

Foyle met the driver's eyes, sizing up the man and the remark. Finding no animus or innuendo there, he smiled and glanced away. "One of a kind," he said.

******** TBC ********

More soon.

**Giu C**


	7. Chapter 7

**L'Aimant**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.

The story resumes on Tuesday 5th December, one month after Foyle and Sam have become lovers. Sam is off to the shops, and things are about to change.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

**Author's Notes:**

Constable Davis belongs to _TartanLioness._

The normal format for date-notation in the UK is dd/mm/yy.

_dancesabove _ is a wonderful beta, dash it!

* * *

**Previously, in "L'Aimant"**

_Around six, they roused themselves and cooked their evening meal, sharing a simple dinner round the kitchen table. They ate with just their forks, so they could continue to hold hands throughout the meal._

_At nine the time arrived for Sam to return to her digs. Foyle summoned a taxi to convey her home, and rode with her in the rear of the car, sitting sideways-on, his arm extended along the back of the seat, just as he often did in the Wolseley. _

_Mindful of appearances, Sam sat straight-backed, facing forwards, and held her hands immobile in her lap._

_When they arrived outside her lodgings, Foyle reached down for Sam's hand and raised it to his lips. "Tomorrow, business as usual. Don't be late, Miss Stewart." _

_"You can rely on that, Sir."_

_When she withdrew her hand to leave the taxi, he felt a tug inside himself, as if a little piece of him was leaving with her._

_"Lovely girl, Guv!" offered the cabbie amiably once she'd gone, looking through the rear view mirror at his remaining passenger._

_Foyle met the driver's eyes, sizing up the man and the remark. Finding no animus or innuendo there, he smiled and glanced away. "One of a kind," he said._

* * *

**Chapter 7**

**Tuesday, 5th December (one month has passed)**

"Brookie, I need to pop out to the shops." Sam bounced up to the station front desk. "Haven't got a thing in the pantry for dinner tonight. I've asked Mr Foyle's permission. He says it's quite all right for me to slip out for a bit."

"Right-oh, Miss Stewart. See you later then."

Brookie watched her sail through the swing-doors. What a lovely piece of work she was, and no mistake. And there was no denying that the old man had a new spring in his step just lately—not that he didn't always walk like a dancer. For the last month, Brookie had been watching all the goings-on with a vested interest—a look here, a blush there, the inadvertent placing of a hand at the small of Miss Stewart's back as Foyle propelled her through the station doors—and he reckoned he'd more or less got things straight about these two. Well, _good-oh_, he was glad for 'em.

In terms of business, things were looking shipshape in the book: all bets were properly logged and covered. The only problem had been coming up with how to prove if any of the Foyle/Miss Stewart scenarios the lads were betting on had actually happened.

One morning, when the boss, Miss Stewart and Sergeant Milner were safely out of the picture, he and the lads had held a secret conflab in the constabulary kitchen. They'd agreed that outcomes would be judged on "best available evidence" and "balance of probabilities" based on Brookie's observations. Brooke had made the effort to explain both these ideas v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y to Constable Davis, who wasn't the sharpest tool in the box.

"All right with us, Sarge," one of the lads had chimed in. "Well, it's only for a larf after all. Not like we're ever gonna catch 'em in flagrantey, is it?"

So that was all sorted out.

But being a basically honest bloke, Brooke had reason to regret telephoning Foyle's house on that Saturday morning a month ago, the day after their trip to the flicks. Yes, he really _did_ regret that call, because Miss Stewart had answered, hadn't she? And honesty obliged him to make a note of that under "best available evidence". Which, in turn, made him rue offering odds of 40 to 1 against _one _particular outcome.

* * *

Standing in the queue outside Harris's butcher's, clutching her ration book, Sam began to feel queasy. By the time she'd reached the counter for her turn, and handed her book across to Mrs Harris, the smell of the raw meat inside the shop was giving her the most terrible nausea.

At that point, she should have left forthwith, minus the minced lamb, because quite frankly there was no way she could ever have imagined herself eating mince again. But all at once, it was too late. The smell overwhelmed her and she had to rush out of the shop to retch and vomit on the pavement.

All the other women in the queue were craning necks to see the happenings outside. Gladys Harris, on the other hand, registering Sam's hasty exit, and the subsequent to-do, was far more taken with an entry on the cover of the ration book she now held in her hand.

_Stewart, Samantha Evelyn, Miss_

_Date of birth: 12/06/18._

Being a butcher's wife—sharp with the pennies, and one judicious finger on the scales—Gladys Harris added one-plus-one to give the oddly interesting answer, three. So _this_ was the girl who had been Mr Foyle's young woman visitor a few weeks ago. Up went the Gladys Harris eyebrows—and yet she barely missed a beat before her voice assumed a tone of false solicitude.

"Such a shame. Is someone helping that young lady? Oh-dear-oh! Next, please!"

Some moments later, she was gushing "Hope you're feeling better, Dear," when Sam stepped back inside, bedraggled and a little pale from bringing up her breakfast. "Don't worry yourself. I'll send the boy out front with a bucket and some sawdust. Now then, a quarter of minced lamb, was it? Have you got far to go? I can let you have a bit of sausage if you like."

"No—no, not too far. Hastings Constabulary," supplied Sam haltingly. She was trying to ignore the prickle of returning nausea at the back of her ears, and it never crossed her mind she might be digging her reputation a nasty hole.

As she turned to leave the shop, carrying her little parcel of meat, a wave of private misery engulfed her. The ominous, sinking feeling that had dogged her for the last two weeks had just become a certainty.

* * *

That afternoon, on their routine inspection-run to Eastbourne, Sam felt the time had come to break the news to Christopher. Not really knowing how to start, she screwed her courage tight and eased a toe into the water.

"Silly thing happened at lunchtime today, Christopher. I felt quite ill inside the butcher's—the smell."

Distracted by some random thought-or-other, Foyle wasn't quite on form. "Hmm? Sorry to hear that, Sam. Milner can send a body round. Check the hygiene standards. Can't have them selling meat that's off."

"No—no. Nothing like that. I'm afraid that I… threw up my breakfast outside." Sam was staring forwards through the windscreen, her tone apologetic, as if communicating an infernal nuisance.

It took another second for the light to dawn, and the reality of what he had been told to register with Foyle. His eyelids closed as the full impact of the news sank in. _It's as we feared, then. Damn and blast my clumsiness for putting her in this state_.

He pulled himself together, cleared his throat and pointed vaguely towards the roadside. "Pull over, would you, Sweetheart? Soon as you can."

Sam drew to a halt in the first convenient lay-by. They were quite a long way outside Hastings. Very few cars shared the road, and the only sound when she switched off the engine was a handful of half-hearted twitters from a nearby hedge.

Neither of them spoke for a while. After a moment, Foyle removed his hat, and stretched his arm behind her along the back of the seat.

Sam could sense him turning sideways-on to look at her, but made no move to meet his eyes. Instead she lowered her eyelashes and gazed into her lap. The next move was Christopher's, and his alone.

Foyle studied her warily, as if assessing what form of contact he could get away with at this point. Then he reached out with his index finger and stroked her cheek. Sam sat immobile. He withdrew his hand.

"Um. Sam, I was, er, going to ask you this at Christmas anyway, but now seems suddenly appropriate."

He pursed his lips, then tossed out what was on his mind. "Miss Stewart. How d'you fancy marrying your boss?"

He waited for some sign that she had heard. Getting none, he improvised a few incentives.

"He's got a bit of mileage left in him. Upholstery's a bit worn," —as if to demonstrate the goods, Foyle raised a hand and skimmed the fuzz atop his head— "but the bodywork is solid, and the engine's sound. Besides, he can't go anywhere without you, so..."

He reached across again and took her gloved left hand. Gently pulling off the gauntlet, he paused to scrutinise the fingers resting lightly in his own. And then he raised the fourth one to his lips and kissed the back of it.

"How about it, Sam? Hmm? Throw a poor old dog a bone?"

It was a bright, clear winter's day, but Sam's view through the windscreen turned distinctly misty. She sniffed back tears just once, then shrugged. "Provided I don't have go and buy one from the butcher's _right _away. Because I don't believe my stomach's up to it."

Foyle chewed his cheek and watched her steadily, still waiting for a proper answer. Eventually, Sam let out a ragged sigh and said, "But as for marrying my boss, I think that I should like that very much."

He reached up then and took her face between his hands. "Sam," he breathed, and kissed her softly. "Thank you. Don't deserve you."

They sat there staring forwards through the windscreen, hand in hand, and started making plans.

* * *

Sam's appetite was clawing back a bit of ground by five o'clock, and so the first plan on their list—to go out for a celebratory meal—was easy to fulfil.

They fixed to meet at half past six at _L'Alouette (Benito's)_ for an early supper. Since the place had been their starting point a month before, it felt as if they would be bringing things full-circle.

Foyle had asked Sam to drop him off at Steep Lane before she returned the Wolseley to the station. Now, as he walked downhill to meet her at the restaurant, he carried in his pocket an engagement ring bequeathed him by his mother on her death, some three years after Rosalind's.

The ring had always been his mother's pride and joy, and almost never left her finger in her lifetime. It was a single square-cut aquamarine on an 18-carat yellow gold shank, set in white gold and surrounded by fourteen smallish brilliant-cut diamonds. He'd been bewildered as to why the ring was left him in his mother's will. By rights, in his view, any jewellery should have gone directly to his sister, since Rosalind was, after all, already dead. Nevertheless, the will was quite particular about this one bequest.

Now he saw quite clearly that his mother, witnessing his desolation after Rosalind, had wanted desperately to see him marry once again.

As they sat waiting for their meal to be prepared, Foyle removed the symbol of his mother's love from its antique leather box and slipped it on Sam's finger. _You get your wish now, Ma,_ he thought, and leant across to kiss his future wife.

Sam was dumbstruck with delight. It sparkled like the Pole Star on her finger—but the ring itself was just a little bit too large. She whispered, "Christopher, it's absolutely lovely, but I'm awfully afraid I'll lose it!"

Foyle was anxious not to let her think that anything about the ring was Rosalind's. "The ring came from my mother," he explained. "Intention was to get it resized, based on one of yours, as a surprise, in time for Christmas. Thing is, events have sort of run away with us today." Sam smiled and blushed at that. "But if you're worried," he added sympathetically, "we can keep it in the box for now." He pushed the box towards her across the table.

Sam resisted. "No! Oh, no! I want to wear it for tonight." Her fingers closed, possessively, to anchor the ring in place. "Let me keep it on till morning, then you can have it back tomorrow."

Foyle appraised the ring now sparkling on Sam's finger. It was indeed a thing of beauty, but nothing in comparison to the lovely woman wearing it. _My fiancée_. "Of course you'll keep it on, my darling," he reassured her, covering her hand with his and squeezing gently.

* * *

Benito had been watching closely the performance from the moment the couple had taken their seats. _Il Commissario_ had particularly requested a secluded corner table, so _certamente_, there was special business going on_._

Seeing Foyle place the ring on _la signorina's_ finger, Benito beamed and clasped both hands up to his lips in vindication. _Ecco! Bravi!_ He had very few customers tonight, but Mr Foyle was one who always drew his most particular attention. Here was a gentleman—_un_ _signore simpatico_—who'd shown him both professional courtesy and humane understanding when his restaurant was attacked in 1940—and in such matters of personal obligation for a kindness rendered, Benito was a veritable elephant.

"_Commissario Foyle e bella Signorina!"_ Benito felt himself on safe ground around this man, never hesitating to address him in the language of his birth. "I wish you both long lives, and happiness _per il suo fidanzamento_." He lifted Sam's be-ringed hand and pressed it to his lips. "We shall have wine and special music now for your engagement, Signorina."

Sam blushed all shades of pink at the attention, reaching out for Christopher with her free hand—the one Benito wasn't kissing!

Foyle, who had momentarily relaxed back in his chair, absorbing the scene with undisguised appreciation, was suddenly inspired to take a leaf out of Benito's book. And so Sam found herself strung between an Italian gentleman and her future husband, two men of similar ages, kissing both her hands in unison. Her face caught fire, but in the nicest way imaginable.

* * *

Benito excused himself to organise the promised wine and music. To him, these things were every bit as vital as the food he was about to serve, for though he'd made a living out of dishing up extruded-flour-paste served in sauce, his heart and soul belonged to opera.

Before the war Benito had amassed a large collection of the Italian Greats, recorded, for the most part, from performances at La Scala. After his family, whom he cherished with a fiercely Mediterranean affection, these recordings represented his most treasured possessions. And—oh!—how he had thanked the Lord _("Ti ringrazio, Signore, con tutto il cuore!"_), that summer-night in '40 when the vandals who had smashed his windows failed to damage any of his precious shellac discs. Now it was Benito's pleasure to share this passion with his special guests.

Accordingly, Foyle and Sam soon found themselves well settled with a glass of Orvieto each (Benito dug into his special reserve supply), and regaled with Benito's favourite extracts from "_La Boheme_". They ate their main course to the strains of Gigli serenading Licia Albanesi with _"O soave fanciulla_" and _"Che gelida manina"_ (which Sam really found to be a little overwrought as background music—to the point where she had to stifle giggles a few times).

"Shush, Sam," admonished Foyle. "He means well."

"I was rather hoping for some Bing…" she confided in a whisper.

* * *

After their meal, the couple's walk back up Steep Lane recalled the night one month before when they had made the choices that would change their futures. Foyle gathered Sam in close, and draped his overcoat, cape-like, around them both. She walked in front of him, her back against his arm, their hands linked across her middle. Foyle stroked his mother's—now Sam's—ring upon her finger, and enjoyed the most tremendous sense of pride.

Few people were around to see, and so they paused a few times on their way uphill, to warm each other's lips, and sample how it felt to be engaged.

* * *

The living room at Steep Lane was a welcome haven after the December chill outdoors. Settled on the rug before a glowing fire, Sam split her time between admiring her exquisite ring and rifling happily through the records stacked beside Foyle's agèd gramophone. "I say, Christopher, _is_ there any Bing?" she asked hopefully.

Foyle winced. "Sam. Look at me. Crusty old widower; likes fishing and a quiet glass of single malt. Why would I _own_ a Bing Crosby record? Unless, that is, you imagine I've been running a regular seduction operation in my living room?"

Sam had to smile at that. "Only asking," she shrugged. "Anyway, I read in _Britannia & Eve_ that Mr Crosby _loves_ to fish. You may have more in common with Bing than you think. In any case you _ought_ to get some Bing… for future 'operations'."

Foyle raised an eyebrow, and considered Sam. She was a vision, leaning over his records, blonde hair tumbling round her shoulders. _Hook, line and sinker, Foyle, _he thought.

Given the woeful lack of what Sam deemed "good stuff" amongst her new fiancé's gramophone collection, they settled for whatever tunes the wireless had to offer. They sat, wrapped in each other's arms, through Alice Faye's soulful rendition of "You'll Never Know", which had Sam weeping happy tears on Christopher's lapel, and a chirpy little song called "Rumors are Flying" by the Andrews Sisters, which made them both look up and smile archly at each other.

As Foyle led his fiancée up to bed that night, there was a gentle self-assuredness about them as a couple, undaunted by the worst and trusting of the best. That night, their sense of combined strength permitted each of them expressions of desire that bore no overtones of guilt, or worry over unintended consequences. They tumbled into joyful acts of intimacy that tore a cry of "God in Heaven" from one lover's lips, and gave the other certainty that He was indeed up there looking down.

******** TBC********

**More Author's Notes:**

A 1938 recording of Beniamino Gigli and Licia Albanesi singing "O soave fanciulla" can be found on YouTube. I prefer Jussi Björling's 1941 version with Hjðrdis Shymberg, but Benito would have had different ideas!

* * *

It wasn't until 1951 that Bing Crosby and Louis Armstrong recorded their famous version of Nick and Charles Kenny's song, "Gone Fishin'". In my universe, that record eventually finds its way into Foyle's collection. It's still not clear to me whether Foyle buys it for himself, or Sam buys it for him, but when I've worked out the answer, there'll be another story to write.

* * *

Good old YouTube will also see you right for Alice Faye's version of "You'll Never Know" and The Andrews Sisters' "Rumors are Flying". For the first of these, I have my mother to thank. She sang it to me as a child. For the second, thanks go to _dancesabove_, because I had never come across it before she shared it with me. Listen to "Rumors"to find out what tickled Sam and Foyle.

* * *

More soon.

**GiuC**


	8. Chapter 8

**L'Aimant**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.

The story resumes on Wednesday 6th December 1944. Sam now realises she is expecting a baby. She and Foyle both know this and have just become engaged, though they have not announced it publicly.

Brooke is about to be rumbled.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

**Author's Note:**

Foyle-o-philes and regular readers of the fics will know that "PWP" is wartime slang for _Pregnant Without Permission_. Sam refers to the term herself in _Eagle Day_ when she is out for tea with her father. So don't confuse it with the fanfic usage _Porn Without Plot_ ;0). This is still a T-rated fic, free from any episodes of moral turpitude. (Such episodes have been ruthlessly excised from the story… and published as separate M-rated fics).

Constable Davis belongs to _TartanLioness._

_dancesabove_ waved her magic wand over this first.

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_The living room at Steep Lane was a welcome haven after the December chill outdoors. Settled on the rug before a glowing fire, Sam split her time between admiring her exquisite ring and rifling happily through the records stacked beside Foyle's agèd gramophone. "I say, Christopher, __**is**__ there any Bing?" she asked hopefully. _

_Foyle winced. "Sam. Look at me. Crusty old widower; likes fishing and a quiet glass of single malt. Why would I __**own**__ a Bing Crosby record? Unless, that is, you imagine I've been running a regular seduction operation in my living room?" _

_Sam had to smile at that. "Only asking," she shrugged. "Anyway, I read in __**Britannia & Eve**__ that Mr Crosby __**loves**__ to fish. You may have more in common with Bing than you think. In any case you __**ought**__ to get some Bing… for future 'operations'."_

_Foyle raised an eyebrow, and considered Sam. She was a vision, leaning over his records, blonde hair tumbling round her shoulders. __**Hook, line and sinker, Foyle**__, he thought._

_Given the woeful lack of what Sam deemed "good stuff" amongst her new fiancé's gramophone collection, they settled for whatever tunes the wireless had to offer. They sat, wrapped in each other's arms, through Alice Faye's soulful rendition of "You'll Never Know", which had Sam weeping happy tears on Christopher's lapel, and a chirpy little song called "Rumors are Flying" by the Andrews Sisters, which made them both look up and smile archly at each other._

_As Foyle led his fiancée up to bed that night, there was a gentle self-assuredness about them as a couple, undaunted by the worst and trusting of the best. That night, their sense of combined strength permitted each of them expressions of desire that bore no overtones of guilt, or worry over unintended consequences. They tumbled into joyful acts of intimacy that tore a cry of "God in Heaven" from one lover's lips, and gave the other certainty that He was indeed up there looking down._

* * *

**Chapter 8**

**Wednesday, 6****th**** December 1944**

Brooke stood outside Foyle's office door and knocked, wondering what the old man wanted now. Summoned by Foyle's usual "Come", he turned the knob and stepped inside.

Foyle was sitting at his desk, his chair pushed back a little way. He was examining something in his lap, but from Brookie's angle the object was obscured by the desk-top.

Foyle looked up. "Sergeant Brooke? I'd appreciate an explanation of _THIS_?" He raised the article into Brooke's line of view.

Brookie blanched. Foyle was holding in his hand the very book he, Brookie, had been using to record the lads' bets on developments in Foyle and Sam's relationship.

It was open to a page headed, in Brooke's own handwriting:

_The Old Man and the Tartan Skirt_

and divided, beneath the title, into three carefully-ruled columns:

_Col 1: ODDS  
Col 2: OUTCOME  
Col 3: PUNTERS & STAKES_

Individual punters in column three were designated by their initials, followed by the number of ciggies they had staked, neatly enclosed in brackets.

As Brooke knew all too well, the page was populated as followed:

_4-7 On — Dinner and a Film — six bets_

_20-1 — Overnight at a Hotel — two bets_

_40-1 — Overnight at His Place — one bet_

_60-1 — PWP (up-the-duff) — no takers_

_100-1 — Marriage and Children — no takers_

On finding the book earlier that morning, and realising its less-than-subtle significance, Foyle had immediately scanned the third column for the initials _P.M_., but found no instances. His relief had been palpable. _Thank Christ for Milner's loyalty, at least!_

Hearing no response from Brooke, Foyle scratched his head with his little finger and fixed Brooke with a pained and questioning expression. "I suppose you—um—think this is funny?"

"Er. On reflection, p'raps not, Sir." Brooke was sweating now.

"No. Perhaps not." Foyle paused and rubbed his chin, honing his rapier wit for the kill.

"Well, Mister Brooke, you know… you're lucky that I'm not a betting man? because, if I _WERE_? I'd personally be having a _FIVER _on hundred-to-one _Marriage and Children_? And believe me, Sergeant, the payout on _THAT_ bet. _would. break. your. bloody. bank_." Foyle regarded Brooke evenly, sucking his teeth. Then he folded his arms and awaited some reaction.

Brookie's face was scarlet. "It… was just a bit of fun, Sir... No harm meant. We all respect you. And we lo_– _ we like Miss Stewart."

More was needed. Brookie drew himself up tall. "I'm sincerely sorry, Sir."

Foyle digested this, assessing Brooke, and sighed.

"Well, you know what? So am I. Because this?" he waved the book and grimaced, "is my. own. fault."

Foyle continued. "'S'far as I'm concerned?"—he tilted his head—"Do your worst. _I _deserve it." He paused. "But does Miss Stewart?" He fixed widened eyes on Brooke and waited.

Brookie crumpled. "_No,_ Sir. She's a lovely girl, Sir. Sorry, Sir. We're a coarse lot."

"Indeed you are. This. stops. right. here." Foyle threw the book down on the desk, then turned from Brooke and gazed out of the window. "That'll be all."

Brooke sensed that he'd been handed a reprieve. "Yes, Sir." He turned to leave the room, then halted on an afterthought. "Oh, and Sir? Congratulations. You're a lucky man."

Foyle wasn't about to let himself be buttered up. "Well, so are you, Sergeant. Now just get out of my sight. And nothing you _think _you may have gleaned from this conversation goes any further without my specific instruction."

"Er. Right you are, Sir. Thank you, Mr Foyle."

When Brooke had left, Foyle squinted at the columns on the page again and did a calculation. His chops twitched:

_40-1—Overnight at His Place—E.D.(2)_

By his calculation, Brooke owed Constable Davis 80 Woodbines. Plus original stake, that made 82.

…

Foyle left his office in search of Sam, and found her sitting in the station kitchen, dabbing lightly at her eyes.

Before her sat an open, shallow, fancy box which had obviously once contained chocolates. It was packed solid with—_what the devil?—_sheep's eyes, neatly organised so that the irises all faced upwards. The whole grisly arrangement had been artistically interspersed with sprigs of parsley for effect.

Sam was holding in her hand a neatly-folded landscape note, which Foyle assumed had been delivered with the box. Her chin was trembling as she fought back tears.

Foyle sat beside her, and covered her hand with his. "What's the matter, Sam? May _I_ see that?"

Sniffling briefly, she handed him the piece of paper in a flurry of embarrassment.

Foyle flipped the note up with his thumb to read inside. One sentence, in elaborate copperplate script:

_"Samantha Stewart, all eyes are on you." _

Foyle was cautious. The note was infantile—the stuff of playground pranks. Some heartless types might even call it witty. But that was not the point; it hadn't gone down well with Sam, and though he had a fair idea of what _he_ thought it meant, he needed to hear Samantha confirm his opinion first.

"Um, Sam? Would you like to tell me what you think this means?"

"It means they know that I'm expecting, and they're counting months," she told him quietly. Then she reached and flipped the note right back. On the inside page, opposite the writing, was a drawing of a stork with an infant slung inside a cloth and hanging from its beak.

Foyle stared, his colour deepening with annoyance. "Um, right. Well. Leave it with me, then." He patted her hand, and rose, a wave of irritation—anger even—building. Sam had been maliciously offended, and responsibility to address the problem lay with him.

Grimly, Foyle gathered up the note, the box of eyeballs, and its lid, and strode out of the kitchen.

"Sergeant Brooke? I'd like to see you in my office? _Now,_ if you wouldn't mind?" His tone was even. His expression promised Trouble.

Seconds later, Brooke was standing to attention facing Foyle, and waiting for his head to roll.

Foyle pushed the note and box of eyeballs sharply across his desk towards the sergeant. The DCS's voice was low, but Brookie heard it as a roar.

"Sergeant Brooke, you have tried my patience sorely and are _THIS_ close to suspension from duty." He held up thumb and forefinger one short inch apart.

Quick as a flash from Brooke: "This one's nothing to do with me, Sir, I swear." Brooke had quickly sneaked a glance down at the gruesome package, registering the opened note and eyeballs. Now he stood ramrod straight, head up, eyes focussed on a distant point above Foyle's head.

Foyle wasn't even half-impressed. "In happier times? I would indulge you, Brooke. A sense of humour is a blessing in this job. But today my milk of human kindness has. run. dry, and my patience has been tested to its _limit_. Therefore:" Foyle pursed his lips, took breath and launched into a list of interrogative-imperatives: "I want you to FIND OUT who did this? I want you PERSONALLY to vet ANY further parcels delivered to this station for Miss Stewart? And I expect you to report back to ME." He paused and drew another deep breath. "You may telephone me AT home, where I shall be. for the rest. of today."

He swept out of his office, picking up his coat and hat en route, and slammed the door behind him, leaving Brooke shut in there with the eyeballs.

…

Once the initial shock of being carpeted twice in one day had faded slightly, Brooke re-checked his bouncy ego, found it still intact, and set about wondering how exactly he was meant to catch the culprit. _Tricky one_, he thought. Different if this had been the work of one of the lads; he could always wring things out of _them_, but he knew for certain that it wasn't.

And how did he know? Easy, that—the evidence was down in black and white: not one of 'em had fancied a punt on _PWP_, even though they were only betting ciggies. "Nah. Waste of a good fag, mate. He'll be firin' blanks at 'is age," one had said, and the others had just snorted "Ger! Give over."

Brookie assessed the box of eyeballs staring up at him and had a minor brainwave—_as you do, when you're a budding sleuth_, he preened. Gathering up the evidence, he walked out of Foyle's office and made his way across the station hallway.

Constable Davis was manning the front desk in Brooke's absence, and, business being slow, was killing time extracting the detritus from his right nostril. It was quite a detailed excavation-project.

"Davis, knock it off, will ya? How many butcher's shops we got round here? Make us a list."

"Sarge." Out popped the finger and reached down to snag a pen.

…

Foyle found Sam still sitting in the station kitchen, looking miserable.

He laid his hand on her shoulder, and bent down to her eye-level, his own eyes crinkled in a smile. "Come on, Miss Stewart, get your coat. We're going home."

"Christopher, I really don't feel in a state to drive." Sam felt pathetic to be thrown out of sorts by something quite so childish, but that box of offal had been such a calculatedly mean gesture, she was genuinely struggling to remain composed.

"No, I don't suppose you do feel up to it. But we're going anyway," Foyle told her firmly. In his one hand, he held the keys to the Wolseley. With the other he gestured towards the coat rack.

Sam's face took on a baffled and uncomfortable expression as she rose to get her coat.

Outside, she slowed, and started to protest as they approached the car. "Christopher, really, we oughtn't to. I don't think I'll be safe…"

"You're safe with me."

To Sam's bewilderment, Foyle ushered her across the yard towards the passenger side of the Wolseley and pulled open the front door for her to climb in. Once she was seated, he walked round to the driver's side and took his seat behind the wheel.

Sam turned and watched him, agape, as he threw the car expertly into gear and pulled out of the station yard. And her astounded gaze was on him all the way back to Steep Lane.

…

Brookie had gone off shift that afternoon, and used his own time to pay visits to the local butchers. He did so in full uniform for effect, and traded on it as a conversation-starter.

Each butcher in turn was treated to Brooke's cheeky-chappie act: "Yes, I lodge just over in St Leonards—that's where I usually do me shopping—but I'm based here at Hastings under Mr Foyle—d'you know him?"

At the first two shops, he just got a simple "no" to that question. Then _bingo!_ at the Harris shop: "Ah yes indeed—we know Mr Foyle very well, don't we Gladys? Shops here regularly."

Brookie moved in quickly. "Oh, so p'raps you know Miss Stewart, too, then? Drives for Mr Foyle."

Brookie watched for reactions from them both. Harris's response was open and uncomplicated: "I don't think I remember her, no. Do you, Gladys?"

His wife seemed to be enjoying some variety of private joke. "Oh yes, we've had Miss Stewart in here. Poor girl, she couldn't seem to hold on to her breakfast last time." Mrs Harris couldn't hide a smirk.

It was enough for Brookie. The old bat was rumbled. This news was going back to Foyle.

…

Back at the station with a pound of tripe, four ounces of sausage, a pot of dripping and some minced-beef to his name, a weary Brookie slapped the packets down onto the desk in front of Davis.

"Been shopping, 'ave ya Sarge?" Davis asked, unnecessarily.

"What's it look like, genius?" drawled Brooke. A burning question struck him. "Davis, what the _'ell_ do people _do_ with tripe?" He opened up the packet for inspection and poked suspiciously at the rubbery white contents.

"Tripe and onions, Sarge," said Davis, proud at last to have some knowledge he could share. "Well, _I _should know. Me muvver comes from Lancashire."

"You'd better take this bloody stuff to _'er,_ then." Brooke pushed the open parcel at him. "Explains a lot if she's been feedin' you this rubbish all your life."

…

Only minutes later, Brooke was on the phone to Foyle. "The sheep's eyes came from Harris's sir. It's got to be. I don't think _he_ 'ad anything to do with it. He didn't know Miss Stewart—looked quite honest when I asked him. But _she _did. Smirked like _anything_ when I mentioned Miss Stewart. I reckon it was 'er. No doubt about it."

Foyle heard him out calmly. "Hmm. I see. Well, wrap them up tightly and leave the packet in my office, would you? I'll deal with it tomorrow. And, um, Sergeant? Thanks."

He hung up the receiver, stood, and thought things quietly through. That day when he'd been shopping after Sam and he… _Sam's ration book—and later, she'd been ill outside the butcher's shop_. He cursed himself a fool.

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

The sheep's eyes aren't as far-fetched as they might sound. They're based on a true incident. Details to come in a later Author's Note.

…

Okay, so the scene with Foyle jumping into the car and driving them home is a shameless borrowing of the classic _coup de Foyle_ with Milner and Edie in _"All Clear"._ But it's such a gem, we should all be allowed to use it for our own ends at least once.

…

More soon.

**GiuC**


	9. Chapter 9

**L'Aimant**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation_—_in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.

The story picks up on Thursday 7th December 1944, the morning after their meal at Benito's. Foyle and Sam address the next items on their list of plans.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

**Author's Notes:**

During WW2, internment camps for people designated enemy aliens were set up on the Isle of Man—a British Crown Dependency in the Irish Sea, just off the west coast of England.

_dancesabove _pranced through this first.

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_Only minutes later, Brooke was on the phone to Foyle. "The sheep's eyes came from Harris's, Sir. It's got to be. I don't think __**he**__ 'ad anything to do with it. He didn't know Miss Stewart—looked quite honest when I asked him. But __**she **__did. Smirked like __**anything **__when I mentioned Miss Stewart. I reckon it was 'er. No doubt about it."_

_Foyle heard him out calmly. "Hmm. I see. Well, wrap them up tightly and leave the packet in my office, would you? I'll deal with it tomorrow. And, um, Sergeant? Thanks."_

_He hung up the receiver, stood, and thought things quietly through. That day when he'd been shopping after Sam and he… __**Sam's ration book—and later, she'd been ill outside the butcher's shop**_**_._**_ He cursed himself a fool._

* * *

**Chapter 9**

**Thursday 7****th**** December 1944**

Sam stuck her head around Foyle's office door and hissed, "Paul's in!"

Foyle was in semi-reverie, hands resting on a flat, brown-paper-wrapped square parcel on his desk. Sam's voice reclaimed him for the here-and-now, and he met her eyes with a slightly startled look. "Aah…thank you, Sam. I'll be_—_um_—_right onto that."

Adjusting the tie at his throat, Foyle rose from his seat and stepped past her into the corridor _to do_ _that thing they had agreed he must do alone_.

Sam made to close the door, then caught a sudden whiff of something nasty coming from his office. She tentatively poked her nose back round the door to take a couple of experimental sniffs. A nauseous, ripe, decaying smell was reaching her from somewhere in the room… _a dead rat stuck behind the wainscoting? One must have nibbled on that poison I put down some weeks ago. _She smiled, remembering the Lux Flakes Christopher had planted in the kitchen-cupboard by the bottle of rat poison. _Ours has to be __**the**__ most unusual courtship, _she mused, stifling a giggle.

For a second, Sam was tempted to hunt more closely for the source of the odour, but in view of recent bad experience with nasty smells, resolved to leave well alone.

She closed Foyle's office door and leant against the wall of the corridor, watching Christopher prepare himself to break their news to Paul. A pang of sympathy jabbed at her, but she could hardly do it _for _him, could she?

* * *

Milner's office door stood wide, signifying that he wasn't all that busy_—_still, Foyle hovered on the threshold, fingering his tie.

"Morning. Um_—_may I?" Foyle gestured to the seat in front of Milner's desk.

Milner raised his eyebrows and gave his boss an open smile. "Yes, of course, Sir! Morning! Please come in." He hauled himself laboriously from his chair.

It was unusual for the DCS to conduct police business on territory not his own. Milner's brows knitted briefly in puzzlement_. _Under normal circumstances, Mr Foyle would summon him across the corridor.

Foyle stepped inside and closed the door behind him, settling himself into the chair across from Milner.

"Everything quite all right, Sir?" Milner's eyes spelt mild concern, and didn't leave his boss as he felt carefully behind him to resume his seat.

Foyle grimaced, smoothing down a crease across his trouser-leg, his face uneasy, verging on the pained. "Aaah_—_yes. Um_, _yes." His tone was bright but forced. He didn't usually find his sergeant's intense gaze this disconcerting, but today's agenda was just about as difficult as things could get for Foyle.

_Nothing to be done but bite the bullet, then._ "Fact is," he started, sucking on his teeth, "I have some news to share with you of a_—_um_—_personal nature."

"Oh yes, Sir?" Milner's eyes grew a little wider even than his usual, arresting stare.

"Yes. Well. So here it is. Um, Sam and I have been_, _um_—_courting for several weeks now and we_—_um_—_seem to find ourselves engaged to be married?" Foyle's tone appeared to be asking how the devil Milner supposed that such a thing could happen.

_There, it's out now. _He watched the sergeant's eyelids disappear into his head. Foyle worked his mouth and waited for the other man to blink.

The blink took several seconds to arrive, but when it did, a warm, pervasive smile came hot upon its heels, and melted Milner's serious features into a look of undiluted pleasure.

"I take it you approve, then?" Foyle asked wryly, masking his intense relief. "I can understand this comes as something of a shock."

Milner scrutinised his boss, re-casting him in a somewhat different light. "Well, Sir, I can't pretend I'm not surprised. Mostly, though, I'm ashamed of myself for not picking up on things before now_—_I've been so wrapped up with my own affairs lately, now that Edie's expecting."

Foyle inclined his head, acknowledging the generous admission. "Absolutely nothing to apologise for, Paul."

"I really am delighted for you both, Sir. My warmest congratulations." Milner rose to his feet as if to formalise the sentiment, and reached across the desk to offer his hand to his boss.

Foyle gave a nod and shook it heartily, hitching up the corner of his mouth in gratitude. "Thank you, Paul. Appreciate your loyalty and support, as ever."

As if on cue, there was a gentle rapping at the office door, and both men called, "Come in, Sam," in a chorus nothing short of comical.

In she came, a vision of pink cheeks and honey hair, and closed the door behind her. "You told him, then?" she asked breathlessly, with her usual inimitable tact.

"I told him." Foyle's eyes crinkled as he looked at her, and Milner realised he'd seen it all before_—_the spark between them_—_but had never quite believed what he was seeing. With hindsight, he reflected, this was really no surprise at all.

"Sam, it's marvellous news," said Milner, walking round the desk to kiss her cheek. "I hope_—_I _know—_you'll both be very happy."

Foyle absorbed the scene with satisfaction and no small measure of relief. _One more hurdle cleared, _he thought, then stopped to add, "Um, Milner_. _Just for now, please keep this between us. Tell Edie, by all means. But we've yet to share the news with Samantha's parents, or announce this publicly in any way. From that perspective it would help immensely if you'd treat the information with discretion."

"You have my word, Sir." Esteem for his boss and affection for Sam shone in Milner's dazzling stare. There was no shadow of a doubt that he would be rock-solid on this detail.

Foyle nodded. "Thank you, Sergeant. Now if you'll both excuse me, I've some errands to attend to. Sam, why don't you make yourself and Paul a cup of tea?" He smiled and nodded to them warmly as he left the room.

Sam beamed at Paul, remarking cheerily: "Well, isn't this a turn-up for the books?"

* * *

Foyle swept out of the station in his hat and coat, carrying the parcel Sam had seen him handling in his office earlier.

Ten minutes later, he stood outside Harris's butchers, holding the brown paper package at arm's length. _No customers_, he noted. The shop window was largely bare of meat. _The Hastings housewives must have cleaned them out already. All the better, considering the things that I'm about to say._

He pushed open the shop door, and stepped inside. Behind the counter, both the Harrises were cleaning surfaces and trays. Foyle nodded briefly to the husband, then turned to address the wife.

"Mrs Harris." Foyle's face was stony, his hat remaining resolutely on his head. "I'm calling to return some property of yours which seems to have found its way to the Hastings police station." He dropped the parcel arm's-length on the counter, looking at the Harris woman steadily.

Gladys, who had already spotted Foyle as he approached the shop, began to feel heat prickling the back of her neck. She had never in her wildest dreams imagined these particular chickens coming home to roost. Not a word escaped her as she stood in thrall to Foyle's insistent stare.

George Harris's attention ranged, bemused, between his wife and Mr Foyle. Eventually, he made a choice, and settled on his wife: "You didn't tell me anything of ours was missing, Glad."

Seeing that the Harris woman wasn't going to touch the parcel, Foyle stepped up and unwrapped it deftly to reveal the familiar, flat, floral chocolate-box. With the paper off, the nauseous smell spread quickly outwards from the counter.

Harris, still puzzled (but luckily for him, possessed of a muted sense of smell), stepped forward in his wife's place to identify the item. "Well, good Lord, Glad, isn't that the box you keep your cotton-reels in? Who the blazes would've stolen that? Well, _I'll_ be… thank you, Mr Foyle. How did you know it belonged…?"

Foyle fastened his eyes on Mrs Harris as he lifted the lid from the box, revealing the now seriously rancid rows of sheep's eyes and the open, illustrative note. A powerful smell of putrefaction wafted through the shop.

He turned now to address the woman's baffled husband. "It's my conviction, Mr Harris, that your wife sent this repellent gift to my fiancée, Miss Samantha Stewart."

The Harris jaw was hanging loose, his bewildered gaze shifting between Foyle, his wife, the sheep's eyes, and the note. "She _what_? Don't be ridic_—_ Gladys? What the_—_ ?"

Gladys Harris couldn't hold it in a moment longer. Out came the pent-up moral indignation in a serpent-strike of spite. "She had it coming to her. Girl's no better than she ought to be." _Tell the truth and shame the devil!_ Her eyes flashed in a fit of bald defiance.

Foyle absorbed the comment with a tilt of his head. His eyes began to rove about him, but whatever they alighted on he didn't see, because his brain was focussed solely on assembling the weaponry to slay a dragon.

Satisfied his arsenal was fully stocked, Foyle brought his steely gaze to rest on Sam's detractor. "Beg to differ, Madam. My fiancée, _Miss Stewart_, is _so much better_ than she ought to be. She brings kindness and consideration to her every dealing. In fact,"—he paused to weigh up Sam's many virtues—"I'd say that she's a rarity in that respect. And what's _your_ contribution to society in these happy times, Mrs Harris? It seems that you assemble trouble, garnish it with venom and dispense it in… a chocolate box?" Foyle broke off there to renew his penetrating stare; his blue eyes pierced through Mrs Harris like a skewer through a joint of meat.

But there was more that needed to be said.

"I can only assume," he continued, "that, dealing as you do in _dead meat_ day-to-day, your sensitivity towards living beings has been… blunted? Apparently you feel you're qualified to judge a person to their detriment on no acquaintance?" Foyle widened his eyes inviting an answer.

Still there was silence from the Harris woman, who clearly wasn't versed in face-to-face encounters. _Suppose the dead meat doesn't ever answer back, _concluded Foyle. He shrugged, and launched into the rest of his assault.

"But I wouldn't be so _naïve_, Madam, as to hope for an apology to my fiancée, because the malice is important to you, isn't it? _This_," he indicated the offending box, "is an uncommon specimen of several behaviours that I find obnoxious: underhanded; spiteful; cowardly; and unrepentant. And yet you set yourself above my fiancée and claim the right to pass summary judgement on her?" He paused and rubbed his chin. "I don't know if I'm witnessing malevolence or gross stupidity. I wonder what would happen if we took the malice _out_ of you? I tend to think you'd… disappear?"

Foyle parked his tongue and waited for some peep of a reply from his crimson-faced culprit. When none came, he appended quietly, "In future, kindly keep your tainted offal to yourself." He turned then on his heel and quietly left the shop, leaving the noxious smell behind him. He put it down to more than just the rancid eyeballs.

* * *

George Harris watched Foyle leave, agape, but once the door had closed, he rallied well enough to poke his wife irritably in the shoulder.

"D'you want to tell me what you're playing at? Sending sheep's eyes to the ruddy _police_? And who's Samantha Stewart, when she's out?"

Gladys shrugged, relating her suspicions and her reasons.

"So… hang on a tick," George was mentally drawing together all the threads, and knotting a nice rope with which he fancied he might hang himself in peace, a little later on. "_You_ decided she was in the family way, and so _you_ thought it would be _funny_ to insult her and her precious policeman_—_who just happens to be our regular customer, and a _Detective Bloody Chief Superintendent_ to boot? I've got to wonder if you're all there, Gladys."

"I never thought they'd find out it was me."

"Well, _there's_ a funny thing. Looks like they have, though, don't it? And do we really want the Hastings police a-sniffing round our business, what with the stuff _we_ have to handle in hard times like these…? Not on your _life_, we don't. You want your lady-cronies down the WI to find out your 'usband's mince comes straight from the knacker's yard? Eh? Gladys? Eh?"

Harris wiped his podgy hand across his face in irritation, and levelled one fat finger at his wife. "You'll breathe _not one word_ of this to anybody, Glad; you hear? They could close me down, and throw me into jail."

George wasn't nasty as a rule, but _God! _She'd got his dander up today. The missus had to learn her lesson, so he pushed his point: "And _if _they did that, _you'd_ be on the street. Which is exactly where you _would've_ been if I hadn't married you pretty bloody quick in 1923. Hah! You've got a short memory for your own mistakes, my girl."

Gladys looked at him in undisguised contempt. "Who put me in the club in the first place, you ruddy oaf?"

* * *

Outside, comfortably unaware of the pleasant marital exchange unfolding chez Harris, Foyle mentally crossed another item (one he hadn't shared with Sam) off his agenda, and moved on to the next.

He turned and headed for the jeweller's to get Sam's ring resized.

* * *

Across the glass-topped counter, Mr Goldfarr held the dazzling ring beneath his loupe with fascinated interest, peering closely at the gems.

He spoke in precise but heavily-accented English. "A splendid piece indeed you have here, Mr Foyle. Vell vorth the vork you are proposing. Fortunately, gemstones such as these are tolerant of heat, and I am able to resize the ring vithout disturbance to the mount. It can be ready in two hours if you so vish. Do you have other calls to make today?"

"That would be very helpful, Mr Goldfarr. Yes, in fact there_ is_ another errand on my list. I'll come back after lunch; mid-afternoon, if that's acceptable?"

"Good, Mr Foyle. It vill be ready, I assure you."

"One more thing, Mr Goldfarr_—_I shall need a plain gold wedding-band to match this ring."

"Of course! Of course! So, for your wedding, _mazel tov!_ I vill be pleased to show you a selection ven you come again this afternoon."

Once the shop door had closed behind his customer, Goldfarr returned to squinting at the blue-green beryl gem that formed the ring's attractive centrepiece.

_For this age of ring, und blo-grin steyn, the origin is Madagascar, zikher!_ He held the ring aloft, addressing it in admiration, but with no small hint of sadness. "_Oy gevalt!_ A thing of rarest beauty, though. You come to me from where the British Fascists vont to send my people. A little warmer than this '_Isle off Man'_ that Mr Churchill favoured for my holiday in '41... _Feh!_"

* * *

_Well, that was fairly simple. _Foyle paused on the pavement outside Goldfarr's and stuck his hands into his pockets. Now, the "other call" he was about to make involved a special marriage licence…

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

_(I like to share these bees-in-my bonnet, but feel free to skip them if you find them boring!)_

To any reader who finds the eyeballs incident a bit far-fetched, I can honestly say the episode is based upon something that really happened to my mother.

She and my father married by special licence back in 1939, one month before the outbreak of war. They didn't have the money for, or didn't want to waste it on, a "do". And so they turned up quietly at the Register Office to tie the knot.

Having been courting for nearly six years at the time, they naïvely supposed they had the right to please themselves.

There's quite a lot more to the story, but to cut it short, the day after their lightning wedding, my mum was back at work, managing a draper's shop. A box of sheep's eyes arrived for her from the butcher's lads across the road. There was no real malice in it. They were just being crude, as lads will be. Nevertheless, the joke stemmed from a social habit of the day, of punishing and humiliating any woman unfortunate to fall pregnant out of wedlock. And special-licence marriages were generally thought to advertise that fact.

Except that: Mum, not being your retiring type, and (almost comically at this stage) still a virgin (she and my dad had not slept together and weren't due to take their honeymoon in Brighton until the following week_—_in the meantime, Dad was still residing at his mother's house)_—_Mum decided that she wasn't going to put up with it, and marched across the road to tell the butchers where to stuff their eyeballs. Unlike Sam in this story, though, she actually had the moral high ground, or what passed for such in those days.

It would be a marvellous bit of dialogue to write. Sadly, I couldn't borrow her words for Sam or Foyle, because the circumstance is different here. But in the end, Foyle managed well enough, I hope.

* * *

Some of the harshest judges of out-of-wedlock pregnancy were other women. I suppose the Germans would call it _Schadenfreude—_'malicious joy in the demise or misfortune of others'. Society being what it was back then, women were often running scared around their reputations. Weaker vessels amongst them were apt to exploit the distraction afforded by their sisters "falling by the wayside", simply because it took the spotlight off themselves. That's the motivation I've ascribed to Mrs Harris.

Double-standards also being rife between the sexes, it wasn't unusual either for the very men who'd put their women in the family way to remind wives later of the huge favour they'd been done in being offered marriage to avoid the stigma. That's my _Mr _Harris in a nutshell.

* * *

The idea behind _The Madagascar Plan,_ to resettle European Jews on an island off the coast of Africa, didn't originate with The Third Reich. It started with Paul de Lagarde, a German biblical scholar, towards the end of the 19th Century. A number of prominent British anti-Semites then adopted the idea in the 1920s. Eventually the Nazis toyed half-heartedly with Madagascar for a while, before settling on the more chilling Final Solution.

As we saw in the first-ever episode of "Foyle's War", British Jews of German origin didn't always escape internment, and many were sent away for up to a year before the tide of public opinion turned, and called for their release. In my imagination, Goldfarr probably did a year on the Isle of Man before he was allowed back home. After that experience, who could blame him for dwelling on the perfect beauty of a gemstone, in preference to the flawed ugliness of the real world.

* * *

More soon.

**GiuC**


	10. Chapter 10

**L'Aimant**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.

The story continues on Thursday 7th December 1944. While Foyle has had a busy day, tackling Mrs Harris, getting Sam's ring resized and buying a special marriage licence, Sam has her own hurdle to clear… and then our favourite couple have another obstacle to overcome together.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Hasn't _everybody_ heard of Shirley Temple? Ah, well. For our _younger_ readers: Shirley Temple was a child star of the Thirties, renowned for her blonde ringlets and her appealing way with lollipops and old gentlemen (played by the likes of C. Aubrey Smith).

Thanks to _dancesabove_ for wonderful suggestions.

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_Across the glass-topped counter, Mr Goldfarr held the dazzling ring beneath his loupe with fascinated interest, peering closely at the gems. _

_He spoke in precise but heavily-accented English. "A splendid piece indeed you have here, Mr Foyle. Vell vorth the vork you are proposing. Fortunately, gemstones such as these are tolerant of heat, and I am able to resize the ring vithout disturbance to the mount. It can be ready in two hours if you so vish. Do you have other calls to make today?"_

_"That would be very helpful, Mr Goldfarr. Yes, in fact there __**is**__ another errand on my list. I'll come back after lunch, mid-afternoon, if that's acceptable?"_

_"Good, Mr Foyle. It vill be ready, I assure you." _

_"One more thing, Mr Goldfarr—I shall need a plain gold wedding-band to match this ring."_

_"Of course! Of course! So, for your wedding, mazel tov! I vill be pleased to show you a selection ven you come again this afternoon."_

_Once the shop door had closed behind his customer, Goldfarr returned to squinting at the blue-green beryl gem that formed the ring's attractive centrepiece. _

**_For this age of ring, und blo-grin steyn, the origin is… Madagascar. Oy gevalt!_**_ He held the ring aloft, addressing it in admiration tinged with sadness. "A thing of rarest beauty, though. You come to me from where the British Fascists vont to send my people. A little warmer than this 'Isle off Man' that Mr Churchill favoured for my holiday in '41... __**Feh!**__"_

_... _

**_Well, that was fairly simple_**_. Foyle paused on the pavement outside Goldfarr's and stuck his hands into his pockets. Now the "other call" he was about to make involved a special marriage licence…_

* * *

**Chapter 10**

**Thursday 7****th**** December 1944 (mid afternoon)**

_Division of responsibility,_ Sam reminded herself with a hefty pinch of pluck. She and Christopher had come to an agreement about such things the previous evening: he would be in charge of telling Milner, and _her_ job was to telephone her father and arrange for them both to visit Lyminster that weekend.

Christopher had grasped his particular nettle, and Paul was in possession of the facts—well maybe not the _full _facts, but certainly the pressing ones. Now _her _turn had come.

Ensconced in Christopher's office with his telephone and her rampaging nerves for company, Sam took a ragged breath and steeled herself for the fray. At least that nasty smell from earlier had cleared. She imagined the offending rat had found a final burst of strength, and crawled away to finish rotting in a nearby drain.

Sam lifted the receiver, and spoke into the mouthpiece to ask for a connection. A short wait, followed by eight stomach-churning rings, and her father answered.

"Daddy? This is Sam… Hello. I'm calling you from Hastings… Yes, I'm perfectly all right. Is—is Mummy well?... And you?... Oh dear! She hasn't, has she?... Not another headache?... Oh—so not _too_ bad then... Splendid. Listen—I'll be coming over Saturday to see you. And—um—bringing someone with me…Yes, it's someone that you know. You met him when you came to Hastings… Christopher Foyle… My boss, Mr Foyle… Um, well… because he'd like to talk to you and Mummy… About me… Oh nonono! Don't worry, no. It's not the sack!… Nor a promotion, either—well, not in so many w— I think it would be better to explain things when we come… Um. No, I can't explain things now… A little complicated… No, you shouldn't worry… Look—I have to dash. At work, you see… No, he isn't actually _here_ at the moment… Well, he's out with Sergeant Milner… "

_Ooh! you __**fibber**__, Samantha Stewart, but Daddy so approves of Paul, that's guaranteed to throw him off the scent._

"Yes, Mr Foyle _does _actually go out without me _sometimes,_ Daddy… Till Saturday, then… Right-oh. Yes, I'll take good care… My love to Mummy… Cheerio for now."

_Oh my goodness. Phew!_ Sam leant across Christopher's desk, head grasped between her hands, and let her mind conjure the Lyminster confrontation almost certainly in store for the weekend. Already, after a mere five-minute telephone conversation with her father, her brow had broken out in beads of sweat. So how much worse would things be when she faced him in the flesh? Her waking nightmare had her standing next to Christopher in her parents' sitting room, drenched in perspiration, whilst her father scowled at them in disapproval. _Christopher had jolly well better be prepared to do the talking on Saturday._

* * *

**Friday 8****th**** December 1944**

Friday passed off quietly—too quietly, to Sam's way of thinking. Christopher was clearly keeping something to himself. At first she'd toyed with the idea that their impending trip to Lyminster accounted for his subdued demeanour, but the grim set of his features had really started on Thursday evening, following an interview with Brooke…

On Thursday afternoon, Christopher had barrelled back into the station in a perfectly good mood, with her lovely ring, properly resized (Sam was so excited now that she could safely slip it on—outside of work, of course), and arrangements for their special marriage licence well in hand. But then, around six, she had spotted Sergeant Brooke emerging white-faced from Christopher's office. After that, there was barely a smile to be had out of either of them. And _that _was most unusual for the traditionally unsinkable Brookie.

She imagined that the two of them had had a sort of falling out, but whatever was the cause of it, Christopher would not be drawn. "Administrative headaches. Nothing to worry about, Sweetheart," he'd told her. So she reasoned that it was disciplinary, and let it lie.

* * *

**Saturday 9****th**** December 1944**

Foyle couldn't, in good conscience, justify the use of police petrol for a personal errand to Lyminster, and so he and Sam made their way to Hastings station on Saturday morning, and prepared to board the west-bound train.

For much of the journey they had the compartment to themselves, taking the window-seats across from each other and enjoying the view both inside the carriage and out.

There was a brief interruption to this chaste-but-intimate arrangement, when a portly, deaf old gentleman got in at Brighton, and then out again at Worthing. In the intervening miles, he took a shine to Sam, congratulating Foyle on his extremely lovely daughter. There was little point correcting him, as they'd have had to do so at a volume fit to shatter glass.

When finally the old chap rose to leave the train, he doffed his hat and bent to offer Sam a pear-drop—which she took with eager thanks because she hadn't tasted one in ages. Foyle placed a finger on his brow and brooded, waiting for the door to close behind Sam's departing benefactor. Once the man was gone he yanked Sam across the compartment onto his knee, and kissed her thoroughly, causing her to bolt her sweet.

"Oh, I _say_!" she spluttered, batting at her chest. "Honestly, you might have waited till I'd finished. I was quite enjoying that."

"No sweets between meals, Shirley Temple. Spoils your appetite," Foyle growled, "and has a very dangerous effect on mine."

That little interlude aside, the trip was uneventful.

* * *

Even as the Reverend Iain Stewart stood watching through his study window, the mode of his daughter's arrival at the vicarage set alarm-bells ringing in his head. _On foot from where the connecting bus had dropped her, with that man—her "boss"—one step behind her, coming up the path._ No sign of the police car, which would have spelt official business. So this was _un_official then? And unofficial business involving his daughter and this Mr Foyle could only mean uncomfortable business, in his view.

The second thing that niggled with Reverend Stewart was the air of studied ease between Samantha and this man. Was that a proprietorial hand placed on his daughter's lower back as her companion ushered her through the gate? Stewart's sense of fairness chided him to not prejudge the situation_._ Still, it was a barely-smiling man who held his front door open for this pre-announced, yet strangely unexpected, couple.

"Hello, my dear, how are you?" Stewart bent to kiss his daughter on the cheek in welcome. Sam smiled, reaching up to touch her father's shoulder as he leant down to embrace her. Her left hand was encased within a leather glove.

Smiling tautly, Stewart turned towards his other visitor, and took a steely grip on Foyle's extended hand. He managed a terse "Mr Foyle—we meet again."

Iain Stewart was not a thespian style of cleric; he was disinclined towards theatrics, or dissembling for the sake of harmony. His parishioners were used to knowing what the Reverend Stewart felt, since, as a rule, his thoughts were plainly written on his face.

Nor did Sam's father's tight reserve escape his visitor. _He obviously has his own suspicions, _conceded Foyle. _There's little point in spinning out the tension here_.

Released from Stewart's iron grasp, Foyle parked his aching hand inside his trouser-pocket. "Aah—Reverend Stewart, not to beat about the bush, I wonder if we might please have a private word about the reason for this visit?"

Iain Stewart nodded curtly, and placed a gentle arm around his daughter's shoulders. "Well now, Samantha, Mother's resting upstairs, feeling peaky. Would you be kind and take her up a cup of tea? A pot's already brewing in the kitchen."

Samantha turned a brief but anxious gaze on Christopher. He nodded his encouragement for her to leave.

This merest gesture registered with Stewart. Since _when_ were his instructions to his daughter subject to endorsement by another man? The reverend's expression, when he shifted his attention back to Foyle, was braced between annoyance and foreboding. A hand went out to indicate a doorway to his left. "Indeed. I think, in that case, we should step into my study."

* * *

"So, what brings you to my home today, Mr Foyle?" Iain Stewart perched against his desk and gestured distractedly towards an armchair behind his visitor, avoiding eye contact.

"Short answer is 'your daughter', Reverend Stewart." Foyle took a seat, and brushed his hands across his knees. "I have to tell you that Samantha and I are engaged to be married."

Behind the glassy stare he now directed at his guest, a thousand questions flooded Iain Stewart's mind. The first to surface, in a semi-whisper, was "When and how, precisely, did this happen?"

"Samantha agreed to be my wife on Wednesday," Foyle answered evenly. "As to the 'how'? A trickier question to address…" He felt a pang of sympathy for this man, so clearly shaken by the news he'd just imparted. "But I shall help with any details that I can..."

In the next moment, Stewart cleared his throat and found his normal voice again. "Excuse my asking, Mr Foyle. How _old_ are you?"

"I'm forty-nine. I shall be fifty in the spring."

"Then almost twice my daughter's age, as you must realise."

"Yes, I _am_ aware of that," Foyle countered patiently. "Samantha has been kind enough to indicate it doesn't weigh against me."

Stewart nodded. "So… am I to understand that you're a widower?" _And not, _he prayed in earnest, _please God, NOT divorced._

"Correct, yes. Over ten years now. And in that time, until Samantha—you'll excuse my candour—I can tell you there has been no other woman in my… in my life."

Stewart pursed his lips and mulled that over. "In which case, Mr Foyle,"—he fixed his guest with a sharp stare—"I should be curious to know why you've elected to disturb the equilibrium…?"

Foyle formed a half-smile at the reverend's blunt line of questioning. "The honest truth? I'd always regarded that particular part of me laid to rest with my late wife, Rosalind. But Samantha? In the time that I have known her, she has broadened my horizons."

A startled look possessed Reverend Stewart's face, but Foyle persevered with his explanation. "Sam… has been warmth and light to me, from almost the first moment that she joined my staff at Hastings. A ray of sunshine on the ruins, if you will. I love your daughter, Reverend Stewart. And I can't conceive of any sort of happy life without her."

Stewart's features softened. The sincerity of feeling expressed by this man was undeniable. But his own concern was, first and last, for his daughter. "And are you confident Samantha returns your feelings freely? Without, perhaps, being influenced by her respect for you, or awe of your position as her superior?"

Foyle stifled a smile at what was, after all, a natural assumption. The idea of Sam in awe of him of late, or indeed _ever_, was frankly comical.

"Reverend Stewart, Samantha is mature and independent in her choices. Although I hope, and trust, that she _does _respect me, as indeed I do her, I detect no trace of awe in our relationship. Nor would she let such matters interfere with honesty of feeling. From all the _evidence_, she loves me just as I do her."

The Reverend Stewart frowned to hear a term that struck him as dispassionate. "You speak of love like a policeman, Mr Foyle."

Foyle mentally reviewed his terminology, and found himself agreeing with the reverend's concern. "I apologise for the inept turn of phrase. Fact is, I'd sooner _leave_ the Force than let it throw up any obstacle to the plans Samantha and I share."

Stewart considered this admission, concluding, in the light of it, that there was little more he wished to ask for now—at any rate, no questions that he wished to put to strangers. "Thank you for your honesty, Mr Foyle. I assume you came here for my blessing, and Samantha's mother's?"

Foyle nodded, adding gently. "It would mean a lot to Sam. And to me, also."

Stewart's expression closed him out. "Then you must understand that I cannot give it before speaking to my daughter."

Foyle rose, accepting that he'd been dismissed. However, he was not about to let Sam's father think his withheld blessing equated to _"permission denied_". "I entirely understand, Reverend Stewart, provided _you're_ aware that our intentions are both serious and determined—and most definitely _not _about to be derailed."

Stewart heard the message loud and clear, and shot him a sharp look. Both men stood in silence, hands in pockets, mirroring each other in a kind of standoff.

Foyle was the first to speak, and did so more out of sympathy than in capitulation. "If you'll allow me, I'll collect Sam from upstairs and bring her down to you."

Stewart heaved a sigh, directing his gaze out of the window. "Yes, very well, then, if you'd be so kind."

As Foyle left the room, Sam's father dropped his chin upon his chest in deliberation. _The suddenness of this. _There had to be a reason, but he didn't want to hear it from the lips of some outsider.

* * *

Upstairs, in her mother's bedroom, Sam was having quite a different conversation.

"… and so the doctor says it might be something called _the_ _meno-pause_. It means my body's shutting shop on reproduction. Not that I'll be missing _that_ particular aspect, Dear—Lord knows, once was enough for me, though you're delightful—bless you, Darling!—but I _do_ object to hormones in conspiracy to give me headaches and hot flushes at their whim. Your father says these things are sent to try us, but I hardly think he'd be so patient if God put him in a woman's body on the cusp of fifty. If ever _that _occurred, I'd rather like to be a fly on the wall."

Sam smiled, a little sadly, at the prospect of upsetting what was obviously a show of cheeriness and fortitude. "Mummy… what would you say if…"

"Spit it out then, Darling. It's not as if we see you very often anyway these days, and here you are quite suddenly, in _winter_—not even Christmas—with a _gentleman_ in tow. And a rather nicely turned-out one, from what I spied of him on your way up the path. Perhaps a little more _matoor_ than I would've guessed your tastes…"

Sam quietly presented her left hand, ring-side up, to her mother.

"Samantha! Oh, well _isn't _this a bombshell!" She raised her daughter's hand to peer more closely. "But, ohmygoodnessme, that's _quite_ the splendidring."

"His name is Christopher. You will have heard me mention him as Mr Foyle, my boss, from Hastings."

"My darling! But the _lightning speed _of this engagement—not one single peep before today…" Samantha's mother dragged her eyes up from the gorgeous ring and scrutinised Sam out of the corner of her eye. "Samantha—am I to suppose you've opened up a baby business, just as mine is shutting down?"

Sam, who already had been welling up a little, sniffed and nodded, wetly. "You see things very clearly, Mummy."

"You love him? Or you're marrying him _because_ of this?"

"I love him absolutely, and with all my heart."

"Oh, in _that_ case, I see no problem. I should like to have a word or two with him, though. If only to find out what on earth has swept you, oh-so-literally, off your feet and into motherhood…?"

Sam couldn't quell a giggle. "Mummy, honestly!"

* * *

Foyle overheard a smattering of the goings-on inside the room before he raised his hand to knock the bedroom door. From what he gathered, then, he could expect a rather warmer welcome from Sam's mother than the one he'd been afforded by the Reverend Stewart. It was therefore with a charmingly disarming smile that he answered an airy "Come in" from Sam's mother, and stepped into the room.

Delighted, Sam rushed to grasp him by the hand as he entered, and pulled her prize towards the window and her mother. "Mummy, this is Christopher, my fiancé."

Sam's mother rose from her chaise longue to greet this rather dapper gentleman her daughter seemed so proud of. "So pleased to know you, Christopher. My name is Geraldine. Samantha is besotted, it appears."

Samantha blushed. Foyle quirked a self-effacing grin. "Without wishing to impugn your daughter's taste, Mrs Stewart, I can't see that I merit such uncritical devotion." Sam leant across and whispered in his ear, "Yes, you do."

"Oh, nonsense! Call me Geraldine. I hear you plan to marry shortly. Kindly _don't_ do so without inviting me."

Foyle smiled at Sam's outspoken charmer of a mother. She was quite obviously the engaging, open, sociable half of Sam. And Iain Stewart accounted for the serious, reflective side.

"In point of fact, we were very much hoping you would be present at the ceremony," said Foyle. "Next Saturday, in fact, at Hastings Register Office."

"A registrar? Oh, dearie me. And what does Iain have to say about that?"

"Afraid I haven't told him yet. Your husband isn't certain he approves, and wants to see Samantha in his study first." He aimed a pointed look at Sam.

"Oh, does he now?" Geraldine's features assumed a resolute expression. "Samantha, trot downstairs, and put your gruff old bear of a father straight. I'll be down to referee in a few moments. In fact, let's say exactly fifteen minutes, shall we?"

"Thank you so much, Mummy." Sam planted a kiss on her mother's cheek, then Christopher's, and departed.

Geraldine Stewart resumed her seat, and fixed Foyle with two chocolate pools of eyes that were the very image of her daughter's. She saw a man barely older than herself, with natural charm, and rather quietly attractive. A little thin on top, perhaps, but really, if one insisted on hair these days, what with the market so challenged…

Geraldine leant forwards, indicating an armchair at the side of the window. "Now then, Christopher," she said brightly, "a brief and potted history of yourself, that starts out who-knows-where and culminates with Sam?"

* * *

Sam sneaked downstairs and skulked around the kitchen for a full eight minutes before knocking on her father's study door. She entered when he called, and found him perched against his desk, slump-shouldered, looking miserable indeed.

_This needn't be all that tricky,_ she reasoned. _I certainly won't mention that I'm expecting. Mummy won't tell him, and if I __**do**__ own up, it will look bad for Christopher._

But Iain Stewart had had a full ten minutes on his own to work up a scenario. And, having done so, he was not about to leave his daughter in any doubt about her options, even if expressing them entailed revealing all his worst suspicions.

His grey-blue eyes were gentle as they alighted on Samantha. "Darling, please be honest with me. Do you really love this man? He is so much older than you are. I wouldn't want you to feel you _had_ to marry him... for any reason other than a genuine and deep attachment. You'll always have a home here with your mother and me, no matter what your… future condition or circumstance."

Sam blushed from neck to eyebrows and fidgeted—part of it, at least, embarrassment at having taken her father for a fool. He ran a parish full of miserable sinners, after all. She should have known better than to underestimate him.

"Samantha?" Reverend Stewart read his daughter's face in that instant, and drew a hand unsteadily across his mouth. "Oh, Sammy, then it's true! How _could_ he?"

Hands plunged back in his pockets, Stewart stared up at the ceiling. _Dear Father, please don't let my daughter see me weep._

Samantha saw the warning signs and moved in to console her father, tugging at his hidden hand. "Daddy! No! You really mustn't think that way. It wasn't… Christopher was not… Look, I was every bit as much to blame. I'm sorry. You must be so disappointed, but the plain fact is, we love each other. Circumstances ran away with us, but never once in a direction we regretted, even if the timing _was_ all wrong. Don't judge us harshly, and _especially_ not Christopher."

"I wanted better for you, Sam," he fretted softly.

"NO." Samantha's voice was firm. "I could _never_ have a better man than Christopher. Give us a chance to _show_ you this is better than it looks." She sought in vain to pull his gaze down from the ceiling.

Iain Stewart was still evading Sam's attempts to smooth things over when the study door flew open in a blaze of Geraldine, with Foyle as silent retinue.

"What's this, then? Iain, kindly _stop_ this instant. Emotion really isn't what they need from you right now."

Iain Stewart dragged his eyes to Geraldine's, and all but sobbed. "Well, what do you expect? My daughter's carrying some strange man's child."

He turned, addressing Foyle with swimming eyes. "You think I should pretend I'm happy, Mr Foyle? How could…how _could_ you? She was in your care?"

Sam interjected, "Daddy…" but her father bit his lip.

Foyle reached and drew Sam to him. His tone was conciliatory but unapologetic. "She was also in my heart, Reverend Stewart. If I could take it back—this awkward circumstance—I would. But not this marriage. Not our future. Not the love."

He paused, looked down at Sam, took breath, and carried on. "I'd hope in time that you will see beyond this situation. And though it pains me more than anything if I have hurt Sam, or have caused her difficulty, either personally, or with her family, I am nothing less than overjoyed that she has promised to be my wife." The eyes that looked down into Sam's were aglow with tenderness.

Stewart was back in conference with the study ceiling. As Sam had moved to stand with Christopher, it was now up to Geraldine to pull her husband down once and for all.

Perching next to him against his desk, Geraldine slipped an arm around his waist, and peered up at his face. "Iain… for Sam's sake, now… _Enough_."

The Reverend Stewart hauled his eyes back down to meet his wife's. For several moments longer he gazed into them in silence. Finally he heaved a ragged sigh and said, "As you advise, my love. For Sam's sake, then."

Sam's eyes locked with her mother's in a look of undisguised relief, her cheeks puffed out like a trumpet-player's. Some tension still suffused the room, but she took comfort that no loss of life or limb had been sustained. The men were even looking at each other now, if somewhat warily.

Stewart rose from his perch and approached his future son-in-law. "Mr Foyle?"

"Please, call me Christopher."

"Very well. And you must call me Iain. So, Christopher, it falls to you now to take _good care _of my daughter." Stewart reached to stroke his daughter's cheek, then offered Foyle his hand.

"You may be assured of it, Iain." This time Foyle noted that the Stewart handshake was considerably less punishing.

"Well _that's _all settled, then!" chimed Geraldine brightly. "Now, if nobody minds, I think we should decamp to the sitting room and have a proper family chat over a fresh pot of tea. My head is splitting again." She placed herself deliberately at the study door to usher people out, and down the hall.

Once the men had gone ahead, Sam voiced concern about her mother's returning headache, but Geraldine resumed her normal chatter. "Oh, Darling! Don't you worry about me; I'll muddle through. Your father's such a fusspot, but the _only_ thing I _really_ need when I'm like this is _rest_," her voice dropped to a whisper, "and perhaps—forgive my lack of charity—just a _little _holiday from the worthy ladies of the church?"

Sam sniggered, but her mother hadn't finished yet. "D'you know, the doctor offered me some snake-oil remedy for _meno-pause_? Distilled from pregnant women's urine, as I understand. I looked it up in Iain's new Britannica. Sometimes, my dear, I really think the modern world's gone raving mad. I flushed it down the lavatory, of course… "

* * *

Some hours later, with a lot of ground both covered and uncovered, the hastily-formed family-unit parted amicably on the doorstep of the vicarage.

Geraldine took her daughter in her arms. "Take care of yourself, my darling. See you in a week for the grand occasion, and I expect you'll call us on the telephone between-times?" She leant and placed a kiss on Christopher's cheek. His colour rose at this unabashed show of intimacy from his soon-to-be mother-in-law, no older, he suspected, than himself.

Iain Stewart's wary scrutiny of Foyle had softened as the day wore on, observing, as he did, the deep attachment demonstrated by his daughter. He had no option but to admit that this Christopher was modest, witty and egalitarian in his views. But most of all, devotion to Samantha shone through his every look and gesture. On balance, he imagined he and Foyle would rub along quite nicely, given time.

The Reverend Stewart kissed Samantha as she took her leave, then held his hand out one final time to Foyle. "Christopher," he said. "My earlier misgivings notwithstanding, it's clear to me you make Samantha happy. Next Saturday, I hope, will be the first of many celebrations, and perhaps in due course you will bring my grandchild back to Lyminster to be christened here?"

"Thank you, Iain. I'm sure that none of us would have it any other way."

* * *

On the train back to Hastings, Foyle and Sam leant exhausted heads against the window of the rail compartment.

"Well, _that _was jolly hairy," offered Sam.

"Only half the battle, too," added Foyle. "I wrote to Andrew, care of Debden. Haven't the foggiest idea how long the letter will take to reach him, and haven't heard from him for six weeks. Malta was the talk, last time I heard. I doubt he could get leave at such short notice, anyway—to come over for the wedding."

"Assuming that he'd want to…" supplied Sam.

"Well, yes, assuming that…"

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

If you think the "pregnant women's pee" remedy for menopause sounds bad, its precursor was the product of distilled horse-urine.

Oh, but never fear! Progress has been made since the '40s: these days, pregnant women's pee is used for weight-loss, and for _HRT_ we're back (thanks for info Kailin!) to mare's urine again. Don't try this at home. LOL.

* * *

Drug testing back then was seriously flawed. You had to be wary what you took—indeed, that's good advice at any time, but sometimes people make the right decisions for the wrong reasons. My mother had lost her first baby to a botched delivery during the war, in 1942, but then, in 1959, she became pregnant with me. Knowing that she was persistently ill with morning-sickness, her helpful family doctor, who had known her all her life, turned up, excited, on her doorstep with a new "wonder drug" to combat nausea. "New, from Germany," he explained.

Mum discussed it with my father. "Go on, take it if it's going to make you feel better," he urged. She ummed and ahhed, then flushed it down the loo.

It was Thalidomide.

I asked her later why she hadn't tried it for a while, at least. "From _Germany_," she said. That was the legacy of the war for you.

* * *

More soon.

**GiuC**


	11. Chapter 11

**L'Aimant**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.

The Battle of Lyminster has been fought, and Sam's parents are won over. Constable Davis covers himself with glory and makes problems for Foyle.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Constable Davis still belongs to _TartanLioness _(nobody else would have him).

* * *

During wartime, burglaries were on the increase, and Sir Philip Game, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, became so concerned, he personally urged people not to keep furs at home: "They are no doubt warmer, and look nicer than a tweed coat, but a live dog is better than a dead lion." I can't imagine that his sage advice made much difference to the dress habits of the working classes! But in those days, a police commissioner didn't answer to _that sort of person._

* * *

Colonel Blimp was a cartoon-character from the pen of David Low, appearing in the London Evening Standard. Elderly and pompous, Blimp was a satire on the reactionary opinions of the British establishment.

In the 1943 film, _The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp,_ Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger poked fun at—but also displayed some of the humanity of—just such a character, played by the wonderfully subtle Roger Livesey. Deborah Kerr plays three different roles in the film, one being that of the colonel's MTC driver, and her uniform is just like Sam's, except for the style of hat (considerably more fetching).

* * *

Thanks to _dancesabove _for comments and suggestions.

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_The Reverend Stewart kissed Samantha as she took her leave, then held his hand out one final time to Foyle. "Christopher," he said. "My earlier misgivings notwithstanding, it's clear to me you make Samantha happy. Next Saturday, I hope, will be the first of many celebrations, and perhaps in due course you will bring my grandchild back to Lyminster to be christened here?"_

_"Thank you, Iain. I'm sure that none of us would have it any other way."_

_…_

_On the train back to Hastings, Foyle and Sam leant exhausted heads against the window of the rail compartment._

_"Well, __**that **__was jolly hairy," offered Sam._

_"Only half the battle, too," added Foyle. "I wrote to Andrew, care of Debden. Haven't the foggiest idea how long the letter will take to reach him, and haven't heard from him for six weeks. Malta was the talk, last time I heard. I doubt he could get leave at such short notice, anyway—to come over for the wedding."_

_"Assuming that he'd want to…" supplied Sam._

_"Well, yes, assuming that…"_

* * *

**Chapter 11**

**Events leading up to Monday, 11****th**** December 1944**

By Monday, and in spite of best intentions, a scandalous rumour about DCS Foyle and his young woman driver had filtered up to Headquarters. The news had broken thus:

* * *

The previous Thursday afternoon, while Brookie was otherwise engaged, Constable Davis had sneaked a peek inside the chocolate box he'd seen his sergeant bringing out of the boss's office.

Davis's motive was plain old greed. He hadn't tasted chocolate for ages. Though he didn't realise this, his mother had been keeping back his ration and eating it herself. Mrs Davis was of the private belief that allowing chocolate to her lummox of a son was a waste of decent food—tantamount to feeding donkeys strawberries. So she'd simply told him there was none left in the shop, and he'd accepted that.

Davis was therefore licking his lips in anticipation of a treat when he lifted the lid off what he took to be a fancy box of Cadbury's Milk Tray.

It was something of a come-down, then, to find inside the box six rows of eyeballs, interspersed with parsley-sprigs.

Downcast though Davis was to find no chocolate there, his curiosity was piqued enough to unfold and read the note inside:

_"Samantha Stewart, all eyes are on you." _

What with Brookie taking bets on The Old Man and Sam, and now this gruesome parcel with the picture of a stork and baby, even Davis's substandard wit contrived to work things out. Within the hour, he was on the blower, blabbing his suspicions to Hollyoak at Eastbourne.

As it happened, the constabulary was quiet that afternoon, and Brooke had nipped outside to grab some air. Wandering back indoors, he caught the tail-end of Davis gossiping down the station phone.

"… and so it's lookin' like the Old Man's knocked 'er up, the dirty bugger…"

Brooke gasped and shot across the station-floor to snatch the phone with one hand and restrain his constable with the other. In half a second, the receiver was back in its cradle, and Davis was gripped by Brooke's two hands grabbing fistfuls of his uniform jacket.

"What the _bloody hell_ d'you think you're doin', Davis?" snarled Brooke, all wide-eyed panic, spilling over into fury.

Davis, never quick to spot the signs of serious trouble—even when it was snarling in his face—took Brookie's question as a prompt to strike a bargain. "Come off it, Sarge," he told him cheerfully. "They're never gonna keep _this_ quiet. And _you_ can talk—the one who's making book…"

"Yeah, but that's _different,_ you pillock. _That _was just a bit of fun to 'elp 'em on their way, you see. This _ain't_. You've gone and dropped 'im in it, now!"

Davis gawped. The cogs inside his sluggish brain were back in motion. "Nah. Really? Do you reckon, Sarge? Suppose you might be right… I 'adn't thought."

"That's just _it,_ Eddie! You don't _never_ think, you bloody arse!"

A heavy silence fell upon the station concourse, as the two men stood locked together nose-to-nose. Brooke's hands were gripping Davis by the fabric of his jacket, eyes wide with aggravated stress and raw vexation.

"Erm, Sar-arge?" Davis' tone was nonchalant enquiry, as if a new thought had occurred to him about an unrelated subject.

"Whatt?" Brookie eyed him sideways, warily, and spoke the word through gritted teeth with clipped precision.

"The Brass—they won't, you know, _suspend_ the Boss, or summat… will they…?"

Brooke stared, incredulous, at Davis, then shoved him backwards sharply, letting go his grip. His next words were a sob of pure exasperation.

"Oh _F*CK_ off, Davis. What's the _bloody_ use?"

* * *

In no time, idle tongues at Eastbourne wagged right up the grapevine.

The following Monday Foyle found himself en route for London in the Wolseley, Summoned to the Presence. He was by no means unprepared for this interview, because a white-faced Brooke had all but burst into his office the previous Thursday evening and confessed about the Davis "leak".

Foyle had received the news from Brooke with customary stoicism. Afterwards, as he sat ruminating on apportionment of blame, he came to the conclusion that there could be but one name on the figurative charge-sheet for this crime: his own.

In any case, he wasn't going to sink to disciplining Davis—that was up to Brooke.

And Brookie, sure enough, was on the case. Fat lot of good it was about to do—for here came Davis, in his shirtsleeves, lugging a mop and heavy bucket past the front desk, on his way to lavatory detail. And still the idiot was looking cheerful, blithely unaffected by the upset he had caused.

"Who ya ringing, Sarge?" chirped Davis, as he clanked past, heading down the corridor.

"Your mother," answered Brookie drily. "I'm askin' 'er to bring your toothbrush in, so you can clean the awkward bits around the pan."

"You'll 'ave a job, Sarge."

"Will I, now? How's that, then?"

"We ain't got a phone."

* * *

**Monday, 11****th**** December 1944, around Noon**

Just after half-past twelve on Monday, Foyle and Sam pulled up outside an imposing facade in Westminster. Behind it was the office of Assistant Commissioner Henry Parkins.

Foyle looked at Sam, deciding how to remove her from the range of any possible unpleasantness. He had glossed over the reason for his summons up to London, and had no intention of unburdening himself now. On balance, he thought it best that she should go and find a place to get some lunch. "I doubt I'll need you for at least an hour or so, Sweetheart," he said. "And it should be fairly simple to find a place to eat round here. Fact is, you're in the thick of things."

"That's right! I shall enjoy exploring," Sam said brightly, reaching discreetly down across the cabin to squeeze his hand. "Shall I plan to be back by…two? Is that a reasonable time?"

Foyle nodded. "Oh, I'm sure that will be plenty." _One way or another, _he thought darkly. _In any case, if Parkins isn't done by two, _I _shall be._

* * *

At one o'clock and back from early lunch, AC Parkins sat behind his leather-topped bureau, girding himself to intimidate the officer before him.

The prepared script running through his head addressed the general topic of sexual incontinence within the Force: it would not be tolerated at any level, much less among the senior ranks; it exposed the Service to ridicule; if he ignored this, there'd be all _sorts_ of goings-on. Etcetera, etcetera—then moving on to the more particular topic of Foyle.

Parkins' wrinkled face appeared for all the world as if he had been sucking lemons. _My God! The man was old enough to be her father; had he lost his mind? _With steepled fingers tapping at their tips in irritation, he surveyed the annoyingly composed figure seated opposite him.

Parkins forgot his script. "How do you account for this mare's nest, Foyle?" he snapped. "Young women under your authority fall pregnant, and, from what I hear, they do so in your bed? What the HELL have you got to say for yourself?"

Foyle leaned back in his seat and regarded Parkins from under hooded lids. He raised one leg to rest an ankle over the opposing knee. Then he removed his hat and perched it on the top of the arrangement. His expression and his tone were calm and even as he spoke.

"Your summons of me here is based on rumour and conjecture. But since you ask, I have to say precisely this: my _fiancée Miss Stewart_ and I are getting—'the HELL'—married this weekend? I, uh, regard the matter as a private one, outside your jurisdiction?" Foyle tilted his chin almost imperceptibly, as if inviting disagreement.

Parkins fiddled with his pen, wondering if that was all.

It wasn't. Foyle obliged him by continuing. "In view of which, _if_ you persist in harassing me in this wholly inappropriate and unreasonable manner, you shall have my resignation forthwith, allowing you to concentrate your energies on appointing someone _else_ to run the South Coast operation. Because I have _absolutely_ no intention of remaining in a post where I'm obliged to hear my future wife disparaged."

Talk of marriage had rather knocked the wind from Parkins' sails. His mouth turned down as he considered his now much-reduced options for pulling rank and showing disapproval. Clearing his throat, he came up with a feeble, "This is highly irregular, Foyle."

Foyle looked askance to hold his scorn in check. He failed. "To my mind, this _intrusion_ is irregular. And your gossip-fuelled perception of my _situation_ is _irregular_. It seems sensible to me that you stop wasting my time, and allow me to get on with regularising whatever thing you find _irregular_ about my getting married." Then he added: "Sir."

Parkins bristled, but the DCS's posture grew, if anything, more relaxed. Foyle allowed his mind to wander through his previous dealings with men of Parkins' 'elevated' rank. Not one of them commanded his esteem, but they somehow felt entitled to demand it.

More bluster issued from the Brass's mouth: "You realise the girl will not be able to remain in post." _A puny threat_, conceded Parkins to himself, but here was one small way to pull a modicum of rank.

Foyle sighed. '_The girl.'_ This autocrat just wouldn't learn respect. "_Miss Stewart _will most _definitely __**not**_ remain in post. She will be making different plans to serve the war effort, in conjunction with her new role _as my wife_." Foyle's tone was patient, matter-of-fact, as if he were explaining to a child.

"Foyle, are you seriously expecting…?" Parkins' bile rose in a surge of indignation. _Such insolent refusal to defer to authority!_

"Well, yes, in fact I _am_ expecting, _seriously_." Foyle tilted his head again, lifting both hands to enumerate the salient points on his fingers. "I am _expecting_ to marry my _fiancée_, live with my _wife_, and, in due course, bring up my _children_. _IF_ that's all the same to you?" He raised his eyebrows for the postscript: "_And_ even if it isn't."

Foyle plucked his hat from his knee and set it carefully back on his head. Rising to stand before the AC's desk, he waited for… whatever came. It was all the same to him.

Parkins regarded Foyle with pursed lips. _No smoke without fire_. A pronounced whiff of sulphur hung about the whole affair, but he clearly had no stick with which to beat this man. In any case, the DCS was, indeed, stubborn enough to reject his censure and summarily resign. And that would make matters infinitely worse for police operations, what with Sir Philip's most particular attention being focussed on the worrying levels of criminal activity. No. Parkins had no option but to concede defeat.

"I think it serves no useful purpose to prolong this interview," he hissed.

"Glad we agree. So if you'll excuse me, there's the small matter of the SouthCoast to run." _And my wedding to prepare for._ Foyle shot the AC a weary glance as he turned to leave the office. "And, um, one last thing: I shall be needing another driver from next Monday. My _wife_ will be otherwise occupied."

Parkins' voice was peevish in defeat. "Drivers are in short supply, Foyle. And this is too short notice. Use your sergeant, can't you?"

"In case you've forgotten, DS Milner has an artificial leg, courtesy of Trondheim. And my desk sergeant? Can't spare him, sorry. The uniformed operation, as Sir Philip himself has often remarked, is very under-staffed." _Or over-staffed, if you counted Davis._ Foyle paused to measure his next blow. "However… in the circumstances, I might be able to prevail upon my _wife_ to stay in post until such time as you can find an adequate replacement…"

Parkins felt his only minor triumph slip away. "Oh, just—_do as you see fit!_" He pushed irritably at his desk-blotter in a final flounce of pique.

* * *

Foyle emerged from the building to find Sam already back from lunch and standing formally beside the Wolseley passenger door in her greatcoat. He shot her a concerned look. "Not been there long in the cold, I hope?" his hand slid out to touch her sleeve.

"No, not long. How did it go?" she asked, as she held the door for him to climb into the car.

"Fine," he said, then waited for Sam to walk around the car and get in herself. "I told the AC we were getting married, and he wants to know if you would kindly stay on for a while after the wedding?"

Sam was thrilled. "Oh, how splendid, Christopher! Still, I don't suppose they'll let me stay on as your driver once they realise…"

"Yes, well, we'll think that out again towards the end of January. Did you enjoy your lunch-break?" He smiled, too well aware of how she loved her food.

"Rath-er! They've got a lovely Lyons Corner House in the next street. I actually managed to get my mittens on a Kunzle Showboat."

"And was it nice?" Foyle wasn't very "up" in these things, but imagined Sam was referring to a type of cake.

"Well it _looks_ delicious. But I didn't eat it. Here! I brought it back for you." She reached into a paper bag, and drew forth what, to Foyle, appeared a sickly-looking horror of a confection.

Sam perched it on her upturned palm like a precious ornament. It was a three-by-two-inch chocolate cup-case, filled with something pink approximating buttercream (if its constituents had ever issued from a cow, they would be lucky). Piped across the top was an intricate lattice-work of chocolate icing, garnished with a single glacé cherry.

"Isn't it delicious-looking?" she crooned admiringly, swallowing a build-up of saliva.

"Um—looks… delightful. Don't let me deprive you," grimaced Foyle. Sam didn't see his face, as she still was looking covetously at the cake.

"I bet there's sponge in there, as well," she speculated.

"One has to hope," said Foyle, his teeth already aching at the prospect. "Um. Look," he lied, "I had a snack with Parkins. _You _should probably eat it. I'm, er, full." _'Full' right up past the nostrils with the Colonel Blimp brigade._ "But it's sweet of you to bring it for me." _Yes, it really was._ He beamed at her, with fondness richer than the filling in the cake.

"Really, Christopher? Are you sure?" Sam's eyes lit up, anticipating heaven in a chocolate cup.

"Just do me a favour, though."

"Anything."

"Eat it when we're out of sight of Parkins' office window. Don't want you arrested for indulgence verging on indecency."

* * *

Sam relaxed into the journey as she drove them back to Hastings. Christopher's periodically grim demeanour from the last few days had vanished, and she found him open, warm, and (within his normal Christopher-constraints) quite chatty. After half an hour or so of driving, Sam decided she would like to stop and eat her cake.

"I can feel it burning a hole in the paper bag," she explained. "And I really could do with something sweet… in my condition." She shot him a sideways glance under her lashes. All was fair in love and cravings-born-of-wartime-shortage.

Foyle's lips pursed and quivered with amusement. Was he being "handled"? Fine. He'd let it ride.

"So eat your cake," he told her. "Pull into a lay-by."

Once Sam had parked, it was a lightning four-step operation: handbrake on; ignition off; gauntlets off; straight for the Kunzle cake. But Sam's approach was not to be a two-bite, business-like affair. The cake was small, but she was going to make it last.

First came the tongue and delved into the "buttercream" (Foyle screwed his eyes up tight against the image).

Then her lips nipped at the glacé cherry (O_h, God… do hurry up and eat the thing, Samantha)._

"Mmm. Christopher. This is delicious! You don't know what you're missing." Sam was building a whole narrative around the ruddy thing.

_Oh yes, I do. But definitely not a fluffy cake. _"Well, very nice, I'm sure. Might want to hurry up with that. We shouldn't be too long, or it will be—um—getting dark."

The sponge was next. She dug it from the chocolate cup with a deft tongue-curl, then began to clean the creamy remnants from the chocolate shell.

At this point, Foyle had reached his limit, and he turned to look away. His view from the side-window was an unengaging hedge. She was absolutely _not_ playing fair with this cake business.

"Wait till I get you home," he growled.

"I did _offer_ you the cake," Sam protested.

"Don't want the bloody _cake,_" he sulked.

* * *

It was already dark when they drew to a halt outside Steep Lane.

"The car stays here tonight," said Foyle. "Give Mrs Evans something riveting to enter in her diary."

He ushered Sam inside and closed the door upon the problems of the day.

Sam shrugged her coat off, handing it to Christopher, then leaned against the inside of the door. "You've worried me, you know, these last few days," she said. "And quite apart from everything at Lyminster."

"Yes, I'm sorry. Granted, there have been things on my mind, but now it's settled. I'll admit that I've been very tense…"

"That's all right, Darling. I can understand. But I wish you'd _share_ instead of brooding." She reached and stroked his arm. "And I'm sorry that I teased you just a little with the cake. I thought that it would cheer you up."

He placed his hands against the door above her shoulders. "Let's cheer ourselves up now," he said, and met her lips in gentle demonstration.

She shifted to accommodate the kiss, and raised a hand to run her fingers through his hair. "Mmm. Darling. What a lovely evening this is going to be."

"Just one of many yet to come," said Foyle, and led her by the hand upstairs.

* * *

Things started well, but as they trailed into the bedroom, Sam caught sight of herself in the cheval mirror, and was suddenly assailed by thoughts of her inevitable expansion in the months ahead.

"Christopher," she fretted, stroking her skirt over her belly, "how will you like me when I'm fat?"

"I'll like you very well. You'll make a lovely armful. As indeed you make a lovely armful now. There'll just be more of you to wrap myself around."

Foyle reached out in front of him and curled his arms to demonstrate the largest hoop-shape possible.

"Oh, you!" She saw the mischief in his eyes and shoved him lightly. "But you know," she mused, "I'm going to look… a very funny shape."

"Not to me. Well, yes, there'll be a little extra handful here and there, I'll grant you, just as things should be. And as for round your middle—well, I think we'll manage beautifully." Again he formed the hoop-shape. "That's why we men are made with longer arms."

Sam grinned at his good humour, then lowered her eyelashes and smiled a little sadly, "But I'll never look the same again."

"You'll look _more_ beautiful to me." Foyle wrapped his arms around her slender middle from behind, looking over her shoulder into the mirror. "You'll be a large. ripe. downy. peach." He nibbled at her ear with each successive word.

"Then afterwards," he offered reassuringly, "You'll shrink down to an apricot—still juicy, but with less of you."

Foyle closed his eyes to fix the image in his own imagination, and _mmm!_ his mind was captivated by the promised fruitiness of Sam.

"Eventually, you'll lose the weight and dwindle… to a stick of rhubarb."

This was a step too far for Sam. "_CHRISTOPHER!_" She turned her head and glared at him, appalled.

Foyle cleared his throat and set about applying damage-limitation to the gaffe: "Whatever shape you are, you'll be my lovely Sam," he whispered, lips pressed to her ear.

She huffed. "And when your lovely Sam-the-Former-Rhubarb's clothes simply won't fit her anymore?" Sam's sense of humour all at once began to fail her. Sadly, Foyle's eyes were closed and he failed to note the sudden change in her expression.

"Lend you some of mine," he teased. "I've got some very tasteful shirts and ties. And natty braces for the trousers when your belt won't fasten round your middle."

Foyle's mind strayed further into mischief. "Or you could stay at home and languish in your dressing gown—or mine." He nuzzled at her neck. "Barefoot and housebound. That's the way I like my pregnant women."

Sam snorted, elbowing him sharply. "Oh, you do NOT, you rotten fibber. And if you _do_, you're going to have a _nasty_ shock with me."

"Ouch," said Foyle, dismissively, as if he'd said _'that's nice, Dear'_, and he returned to nibbling her earlobe.

Now seriously annoyed by his avoidance of her genuine concern, Sam removed her ear from reach, and prised Foyle's arms from around her waist. "Now, _look_ here. I am _not_ an object for—for your"—she grasped for the word, remembering an article in _Woman's Illustrated—_"_lib-ee-do_. I am _miserable_ about this. And all you can do is make fruit jokes and—and _nibble_—and _paw_."

Foyle sighed good-naturedly. "Sorry, my darling." His hands moved up to stroke Sam's upper arms. She wriggled irritably, barely tolerating his touch.

It was time to shelve his lust and bring his higher functions into play. Foyle's higher self was telling him to deal with Sam's agitation because it was the right thing to do; his lower self was telling him he wasn't going to get anywhere otherwise. Both Foyles joined forces to address the problem.

"All right then, Sweetheart. Here's a _real_ idea: we'll ask for help from Milner. Edie might have things that you can borrow, since you're both, um, heading in the same direction—and Edie's slightly in the lead, so the arrangement could work out rather well. OR we could take a weekend trip to London; see what's in the shops." He sneaked his arms around her middle once again, and waited. "How's that, for the time being?"

Sam warmed a little. "Those are rather good ideas. I suppose you're not so rotten after all…"

She hugged the arms he'd wrapped around her waist, tracing the sinews in his forearms with deliberate, insistent strokes.

"Pleased you think so," Foyle murmured, and a heavy urge claimed him once again. Turning her head a little, he kissed her, begging entry with his tongue.

Sam melted into him over her shoulder, responding eagerly at first, but remnants of fruit salad were still playing on her mind. She pulled her lips away. "Christopher…"

"Mm?" he leaned back, frowning patiently at her along his nose. _Something else is wrong?_

"Am I a 'stick of rhubarb' _now_? Before, um, even getting fat?"

"N-nup... You're certainly _slender_ in a rhubarb sort of way. But bits of you lean more towards the Bramley apple. Definitely."

"They do?" She smiled, enjoying the unusual compliment.

"Mm-hmm." His arms around her tightened their embrace and sent his intellect careering into exile.

"Well, that's all right, then." This was Sam, content at last.

"Isn't it just?" he mumbled absently. _And any rubbish tumbles from your lips in this enlivened state, Foyle,_ he thought.

"So what shall we do now?" asked Sam. She grinned, because she felt the answer pressing on her Bramleys from behind.

"Right now?" he said, "I'm going to lean you back into a nice deep-sided oven-dish and make a juicy orchard crumble out of you."

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

Re Foyle's use of the word "Blimp": to be fair, Parkins (the excellent Michael Jayston) uses the term in an uncharacteristic spate of self-awareness, to describe himself during "Plan of Attack", S06E01. But I've always felt that scene was just a plot device to make Foyle's return to office more credible. In my book, Parkins was a first-rate prat, and still remains one…

* * *

One word to say about Kunzle cakes—specifically Kunzle Showboats: YUM—in spite of Foyle's aversion (men have no appreciation of these things). I ate these sickly treats with relish as a child in the '60s, but they pre-dated my childhood by a good many years.

Christian Kunzle came to Britain from Switzerland at the end of the 19th century, and set up a confectionery business in Birmingham. He opened restaurants in Leicester and London, as well as his adopted home town, Birmingham. His confectionery was renowned for its quality and refusal to compromise on ingredients. Therefore, I should really apologise to his shade for implying that he sank to using _ersatz_ cream during the war (but there _was_ a lot of it about in wartime—remnants of it survived well into the 1960s when I was retching over my school dinners. Blech!).

I can't say for certain whether Kunzle cakes would have been on sale at Lyons Corner Houses, as Lyons was a direct competitor of Kunzle, but Christian's factory did supply restaurants other than his own.

Christian died in 1954 and his family company was swallowed, first by Fullers, and then, eventually, by Lyons, so though I may be jumping the gun a bit by letting Sam buy one of his cakes at Lyons Corner House, it all comes out the same in the end!

* * *

More soon.

**GiuC**


	12. Chapter 12

**L'Aimant**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.

Sam and Foyle are back from London, and have spent the night at Steep Lane with the Wolseley parked outside.

Now it's early morning, and they have a day at work ahead of them.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

If you like a little sauce on your sandwich, **defect NOW** and read the **M**-rated version of this chapter instead. It's published separately under the title "**L'Aimant – Chap 12 (M)**" (but you will need to change your search-filter settings to "**Rated - M**" or "**Rating: All**" first. And don't forget to click "**Go**" after you have changed the rating, or the **M**-rated chapter will not be listed).

If you prefer to stick with this **T**-rated version of the chapter, simply read on.

Merivale, Sam's bohemian landlady, belongs to _dancesabove._

Constable Davis belongs to _TartanLioness_.

Huntley & Palmers were, and still are, UK biscuit manufacturers. Ewbank were, and still are, a UK manufacturer of carpet sweepers.

Woodbines were a brand of cigarette popular with servicemen during the war.

In RAF slang, a lost or missing pilot was said to have "gone for a burton". Before the war, the Burton Brewery ran a series of beer advertisements, in which the characters would use the phrase to explain the absence of one of the characters in the advert, implying that they had gone for a pint of Burton's ale.

My thanks to _dancesabove_, who tweaked this till it squeaked.

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_Sam warmed a little. "Those are rather good ideas. I suppose you're not so rotten after all…"_

_She hugged the arms he'd wrapped around her waist, tracing the sinews in his forearms with deliberate, insistent strokes._

_"Pleased you think so," Foyle murmured, and a heavy urge reclaimed him once again. Turning her head a little, he kissed her, begging entry with his tongue._

_Sam melted into him over her shoulder, responding eagerly at first, but remnants of fruit salad were still playing on her mind. She pulled her lips away. "Christopher…" _

_"Mm?" he leaned back, frowning patiently at her along his nose. __**Something else is wrong?**_

_"Am I a 'stick of rhubarb' __**now**__? Before, um, even getting fat?"_

_"N-nup... You're certainly __**slender**__ in a rhubarb sort of way. But bits of you lean more towards the Bramley apple. Definitely."_

_"They do?" She smiled, enjoying the unusual compliment._

_"Mm-hmm." His arms around her tightened their embrace and sent his intellect careering into exile._

_"Well, that's all right, then." This was Sam, content at last._

_"Isn't it just?" he mumbled absently. __**And any rubbish tumbles from your lips in this enlivened state, Foyle,**__ he thought._

_"So what shall we do now?" asked Sam. She grinned, because she felt the answer pressing on her Bramleys from behind._

_"Right now?" he said, "I'm going to lean you back into a nice deep-sided oven-dish and make a juicy orchard crumble out of you."_

* * *

**Chapter 12**

**Tuesday, 12****th**** December 1944**

Sam awoke early, and hungry. They had tumbled into bed the previous night in an enthusiasm of passion, and fallen into an exhausted sleep after the fact. The upshot was, they'd gone completely without dinner. In spite of all their playful talk of fruit and crumble, Sam's last mouthful had been the Kunzle cake she'd bought in London and devoured in a lay-by on their way home.

Christopher was still draped across her in a sleepy stupor. The bedroom—not that she could see it in the blackout—was, she knew, a mess of clothes strewn everywhere. Luckily she was now in the habit of keeping a change of blouse and underwear at Steep Lane (her landlady, Mrs Merivale, bohemian by nature, was not the least inclined to pry once Sam explained her work would keep her out occasionally overnight: "This is the Modern Age, my dear. And we must live according to our lights! Just give me a little clue, so I shan't worry if you don't come home.").

So here they were—two lovers less than five days short of marriage, shameless, dishevelled and unfed into the bargain. Sam's rumbling stomach yearned for breakfast, and so she wriggled carefully from under Christopher, with every good intention first of staggering to the bathroom, and then down the stairs to coax some heat into the house. The radium-illuminated Westclox told her it was five o'clock, and her bare foot, poking out from underneath the covers, told her it was _perishing_ cold in the bedroom.

Sam groped across the covers for something—_anything—_warm to wear. Finding Christopher's wool dressing gown draped over the footboard, she pulled it on around her bare shoulders. Then she rose from bed, took three steps, yawned and stretched, and promptly passed out in a heap.

* * *

The leaden thud of body hitting floor shook Foyle abruptly from his state of semi-slumber. He'd felt Sam stirring in that "from-a-distance" sort of way that reaches people when they're half-asleep. But once awareness fully hit him, he was across the bed like lightning, kneeling at her side.

"Sam? Sweetheart? Sam? Samantha!" _Christ!_ He groped back towards the bedside lamp and fumbled for the switch. Sam's knees had clearly buckled, and she'd fallen backwards on her way to reach the door. Luckily her head had made no contact with the furniture.

He moved his knees behind her head, and hauled her, head-and-shoulders, up into his lap, pushing tousled curls aside, and rubbing briskly at her hands to stimulate some circulation. "Come back, now, Sweetheart… that's my girl—I'm here… come back…"

She stirred slowly, letting out a groan. "Wha—? Uuuh… I feel so _sick_."

Foyle gently turned her head to one side, then reached up and dragged the eiderdown across them both. He groped back up again and snagged two pillows to replace his knees beneath Sam's head. _Room's so cold… The change in temperature… Getting up too quickly… Low blood-sugar… Body changes from the baby… Get a move on, Foyle!_

He swiftly lit the gas-fire in the room, then he bent back over her, to check her position. She was lying on her side. "Sweetheart? I'm going down to get some milk and biscuits. Lie still. Shan't be long."

Foyle pelted down the stairs in twos and threes, careering round the newel at the bottom to propel himself towards the kitchen. Sixty short seconds later he was back beside Samantha, with a glass of milk in one hand and a fistful of Huntley & Palmer's Standards in the other.

Sam made to turn and push herself up on her elbows, but Foyle stopped her, dropping the biscuits hurriedly on the bedside rug, and placing a restraining hand. "Not so fast. You might go down again." He set the cup of milk down on the tiles of the hearth, and gathered her head back into his lap. Handing her the cup, he began to feed her biscuits straight from where he'd thrown them on the rug.

Still woozy, Sam ate quietly and obediently. She stopped just once to pull a longish piece of fluff from between her lips, looking first at it, then up at Christopher, a little fazed. He shrugged apologetically. "Haven't run the Ewbank over, lately."

Head nestling in his lap, she spoke through a mouthful of milky biscuit, "Christopher, you do realise that you're completely naked?"

His mouth twitched. "Funny you should mention that. Try not to let it put you off your food."

"Doing my level best," she grinned. "I suppose I shouldn't be skipping meals now."

"Events would appear to indicate as much," said Foyle. Then he added, "Not that it's ever been a habit of yours."

He arranged the eiderdown around them, and they stayed like that for twenty minutes, gazing blankly into the gas-burners. Sam made a solemn task of chewing on her biscuits, and Christopher caressed her hair.

The bedroom grew quite cosy in that time, and inevitably, so did the displaced couple. Their steady embraces ground the fluff on the bedside rug invisibly into the pile, and the long-suffering eiderdown narrowly escaped being set alight a second time.

Foyle, now propped on his elbows above Sam, interrupted an intense kiss to gaze down at her. "Thought you'd gone for a burton back there," he fretted. "You had me seriously worried."

"I never felt a thing—just went out like a light," she said. "In fact, I didn't hurt myself at all. Miracle, really."

"But you still worried me," Foyle insisted gently, resuming the kiss, and nipping at her lower lip. After a little while, he paused and turned to squint at the illuminated Westclox on the far side of the bed. "You know, it isn't even six o'clock yet." He settled back between her thighs. "We don't _have_ to move for—um—at least an hour," he told her, meaningfully.

"What—not even a muscle?" Sam teased. "I'm sure I felt _something_ move just then, though."

"You're imagining things."

"No, I don't _think_ so, Christopher. About an hour, you said?"

"Hmm-mmm. The bed's still up there." He inclined his head.

"Safer down here, though. Not so far to fall."

"Safer? _Really,_ Sam? You think?" Foyle moved the merest inch and proved her wrong.

* * *

Several single-minded, breathless minutes on, Sam's soothing hand caressed along Christopher's back until he calmed.

"You see?" she purred into his ear. "I'm perfectly all right—you've felt the evidence. Surely you don't feel worried now?"

"Only terrified," he teased contrarily, then groaned, "Think my legs have definitely gone. You'll have to wheel me round the station in a Bath chair."

They snuffled in contented waves of laughter at the overwrought image.

Foyle rolled onto one elbow, ran his thumb across Sam's cheek and continued earnestly, "Not _worried_, no. But from now on, consider yourself _on the clock_. You eat at three-hour intervals, regardless. You keep a tin of biscuits or some fruit in the car at all times, and you drive me _nowhere_ until I've seen you make a thermos jug of sugared tea to carry with you. Is that understood?"

Sam licked his nose. "Oh, absolutely, Sir."

* * *

At seven forty-five, they descended the front steps of 31 Steep Lane to climb into the Wolseley. Foyle broke with the normal conventions of Sam's job and walked around to hold the driver's door open for _her._ For good measure, he doffed his hat and made a show of handing her in. Then he returned to the passenger side and climbed inside the car. "_That_ should bring the neighbour-woman's eyes right out on stalks," he remarked to Sam, as he saw the curtains twitch chez Mrs Evans.

* * *

At eight o'clock, Foyle swept into the station, pointedly ignoring Davis. "Mr Brooke? My office. Fifteen minutes. Thank you."

"Sir!" Brooke leant back and watched Foyle disappear along the corridor. He suddenly recalled an item nagging him from earlier that morning: "Davis! There's some dog-dirt on the station steps. Get busy with the shovel and a broom."

* * *

Foyle removed his hat and leant against the the door-jamb of Superintendent Hugh Reid's office. He trailed a finger across his forehead. "Got some news."

"Yeah. Thought you might have." Reid was grinning.

"You can wipe that look off your face." Foyle stepped inside and shut the door. "What are you doing Saturday?" he asked.

"I thought I might go fishing. Want to come? Or maybe you've _already_ landed one for breakfast…?" The Super's eyebrows waggled.

"Oh, so bloody smug… Right. Well. On Saturday, you're coming to a wedding. I'm the lucky man, Samantha, as you've worked out, is the woman daft enough to take me on. I need two witnesses. You up for being one of 'em? Saves me a handsome five bob on the day if I don't have to pay a witness."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Oh, and bring Elaine. Need someone there to keep you civilised. There's going to be a meal at The Royal V, provided I can fix it in the time available, otherwise we're going to the pub."

"Sounds fine to me."

"Me, too. Register Office, eleven o'clock. Don't be late. Thangyouverymuch." Foyle reached across and briskly shook the Super's hand.

"My pleasure." Reid replied, then couldn't resist: "And yours too, I imagine."

Foyle mulled that over, pursed his lips and nodded slowly, absorbing the jibe. "Rrright. Just do me a favour—don't forget to bring Elaine on Saturday. Oh, and… shut it, Hugh." He turned to leave.

"Christopher—"

"Yup?"

"I'd give my eye teeth to have someone look at me the way she looks at you."

Foyle halted, without turning, and inclined his head. "'preciate it."

* * *

Along the corridor, Sam swung chirpily in through Paul's open door, keeping a handhold on the doorframe.

"Morning, Paul!"

"Hello Sam! How are you?" Milner glanced up and met her cheery greeting with a smile.

"Just wonderful. The wedding's fixed for Saturday at the Register Office. Would you join us? You and Edie? Eleven o'clock?"

"We'd love to," Paul beamed. "Edie will be delighted."

"Oh marvellous! Paul, do you think Edie would agree to be a witness? Christopher is asking Superintendent Reid to be one, and though we felt that you might like to be the other, I said that we should have a lady, to be fair—and so I thought of Edie, because, anyway, you'd be there with her, so it all comes out the same."

Paul smiled, more pleased than he could say by their plans to involve his wife. "Yes, I'm sure she'd love to. Thank you, Sam. Look forward to it."

"Tickety-boo!" Sam swung out again. Then back in again. "Oh! And there'll be food laid on afterwards. Probably at The Royal Victoria, but I'll keep you posted! Bye for now!"

Paul fixed his wide eyes on the open doorway, and wondered quietly, with just the slightest tinge of trepidation, how things would feel at work this time next week.

* * *

Fifteen minutes had elapsed, and Brookie checked his watch just to be sure. He knocked politely on Foyle's office door, smoothing down his uniform jacket.

Since transferring from Deptford Green almost three years before, Brooke had come to rather like his posting "out in the sticks". There had been some small adventures, plenty of laughs, and now there was his landlady's daughter, Florrie, to keep him amused as well. Deptford Green no longer seemed quite so attractive, and yet he had the feeling that, depending on the outcome of this interview, he might well be heading back there, or, even worse, to Eastbourne, or to bloody Bognor. He knew that the boss had been called to London the previous day, and he had a fair idea of why.

"Come in!" Foyle's voice reached Brooke through the door.

Brooke stepped into the Boss's office and stood to attention.

"Sir!"

"Close the door, Brooke."

Brookie turned and did as he was bidden, feeling as though he were closing the door on a chapter in his life. _Ah well, you've _'_ad a decent innings, mate. Stand up and take your medicine._

"Sergeant," Foyle began, "as you're well aware, my personal life has been the subject of much speculation just of late. Not least of all from persons based at this constabulary, one of whom is standing in this very room."

"Um, yes, Sir. That would be correct."

"Mm-hmm. And though I wouldn't say I'm wild about my private life, much less Miss Stewart's, serving as the butt of gossip, I'm a reasonable man—"

"You are, Sir!"

"Haven't finished. A reasonable man, and can't in honesty pretend to be surprised that we've provoked such interest."

"You can't, Sir?"

"Brooke. You're sounding like an echo."

"Yes, Sir! An echo, Sir."

"Brooke. Be quiet." Foyle ran a hand across his brow. "I need a driver—_Miss Stewart_ needs a driver for this Saturday. Collect her in the Wolseley from her home address at a time that suits her, and deliver her to the Hastings Register Office no later than ten-fifty. Best dress-uniform."

"And a rose between me teeth, Sir?" Brooke was beaming. Things were suddenly "on the up" and climbing.

Foyle ignored the quip, though his lip gave a reflexive twitch. "Your ladyfriend—her name?"

"Florence, Sir. Miss Watson."

"Should she wish to join us at the wedding party, there will be a celebration following the ceremony at around midday, venue to be announced."

"Join 'us', Sir?"

"Yes, Brooke, 'us', unless you've something better to be doing Saturday lunchtime?"

"Not a thing, Sir. Thank you, Sir!"

"Dismissed. Don't let me down."

"No fear, Sir! May I tell the men, Sir?"

"Yes, you may."

* * *

"Oi! Davis?"

"Sarge?" Davis's voice drifted indoors from the front steps of the station.

"Put that shovel down, Constable. I've got a present for ya." Brookie slammed an Ovaltine tin down on the front desk.

Davis wandered over from the station doors, sizing up his 'present'. "Ovaltine, Sarge? Kind of ya, but it ain't bedtime yet. And anyway, me muvver always makes me 'Orlicks. 'Orlicks is me favourite."

Brooke resisted the temptation to pick up the tin and bang it sharply against Davis' skull. "Open the lid, you berk."

Davis prised the lid off and peered inside. The tin was crammed tight with Woodbines. "Bloody 'ell, Sarge! Did I win the jackpot?"

"In a way, you did, yeah. 'Cos you bet two fags on _'Overnight at 'is place'_—40 to 1, remember?"

Davis nodded mutely, wondering if there was going to be More Trouble. But Brooke continued evenly, "Well, on Saturday, they're gettin' married, see? So, if they 'aven't yet, by Monday morning they will 'ave done for certain. Now go an' smoke yerself to death, you jammy beggar. And stay _off_ the blower to Eastbourne—they've got gobs on 'em the size of Goering's backside over there."

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

Like Sam, I once passed out after yawning and stretching. Felt like a right fool, and bashed my head into the bargain. Did me a lot of good, though. When I came to, I was a genius. Wibble.

Sadly, no Foyle to pick me up.

* * *

More soon…

**GiuC**


	13. Chapter 13

**L'Aimant**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.

The wedding is only a few days away. Geraldine has plans for Sam, and Christopher assumes responsibility for Iain—or vice-versa.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

**Author's Notes:**

Glenlivet is a very fine single malt scotch whisky. Its history began in an illegal Speyside distillery, and though its production has long since been a licensed and legal operation, it still tickles the palate in a wicked way.

* * *

The Dinkie was a 1940s brand of steel hair-curler, comprising a steel shaft-and-clip arrangement—precursor to the roller.

* * *

_Jane_ was the voluptuous heroine of Norman Pett's 1940s cartoon-strip in _The Daily Mirror._ She was notoriously bad at keeping her clothes on, particularly when the troops' morale needed a boost. Jane was modelled on a lady called Chrystabel Leighton-Porter, from Eastleigh in Hampshire.

* * *

Woodbines were a brand of strong, unfiltered cigarette, popular with soldiers at the time. Ovaltine and Horlicks were (and still are) Great British bedtime drinks, traditionally made with milk.

* * *

_dancesabove _- thanks to you, as ever, for your invaluable input.

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant":_**

_"Oi! Davis?"_

_"Sarge?" Davis' voice drifted indoors from the front steps of the station._

_"Put that shovel down, Constable. I've got a present for ya." Brookie slammed an Ovaltine tin down on the front desk._

_Davis wandered over from the station doors, sizing up his 'present'. "Ovaltine, Sarge? Kind of ya, but it ain't bedtime yet. And anyway, me muvver always makes me 'Orlicks. 'Orlicks is me favourite."_

_Brooke resisted the temptation to pick up the tin and bang it sharply against Davis' skull. "Open the lid, you berk."_

_Davis prised the lid off and peered inside. The tin was crammed tight with Woodbines. "Bloody 'ell, Sarge! Did I win the jackpot?"_

_"In a way, you did, yeah. 'Cos you bet two fags on __**'Overnight at **_**'****_is place'_**_—40 to 1, remember?"_

_Davis nodded mutely, wondering if there was going to be More Trouble. But Brooke continued evenly, "Well, on Saturday, they're gettin' married, see? So, if they 'aven't yet, by Monday morning they will 'ave done for certain. Now go an' smoke yerself to death, you jammy beggar. And stay __**off**__ the blower to Eastbourne—they've got gobs on 'em the size of Goering's backside over there."_

* * *

**Chapter 13**

**Wednesday, 13****th**** December 1944**

Geraldine Stewart spoke adamantly down the line to Sam. "I'll be with you on Friday evening, Darling. We'll spend a little bit of time on your hair, and Daddy can stay in town—can't have him under our feet. Oh, and I'll bring some lovely things to wear…"

"Mummy, no need, honestly. I was only going to wear my green dress. It's not as if we're in church."

"Nonsense, Samantha. No excuses. Wherever you are, we shall have you looking splendid. I'll bring my fox fur."

"Mother. NO."

Sam was beginning to feel under siege. Despite the fashion of the day, she was darned if she'd be getting married with a flattened piece of taxidermy draped around her neck—all glass-eyes, teeth, and grinning at the witnesses.

"Shoes, then," persisted Geraldine. "I'll bring the satin ones. We shall simply have to hope it doesn't rain—or snow—or they'll be ruined. How I _do _despair of the English climate!"

"Mummy, it's December, and it _has _been known to snow, even on The French Riviera—not that Adolf is about to let us through to check the weather."

* * *

"So that's it," Sam complained to Christopher that evening as they relaxed on the settee before dinner. "I'm being descended on by Mummy at my digs on Friday night, and Daddy's being banished into town to some hotel or other." She huffed. "He'll grumble, and by Saturday morning, it's unlikely that I'll still be sane."

"Iain can stay here with me on Friday night," Foyle told her simply.

"Really, Darling—are you serious?"

"Wouldn't offer if I weren't," he smiled indulgently down on Sam, savouring the feel of her. She was leaning against his side, supported by his arm around her shoulders.

"Oh, I _do_ love you so," she said, and snuggled closer. A little quiet time with her fiancé was really all she craved to calm her nerves.

"Why?" he asked. His mouth twitched under crinkled eyes as he settled back to enjoy her reaction to his challenge.

"Why do I love you?" Sam was taken aback. "You _know_ 'why'."

"Don't. Not really. Don't believe you've ever _actually_ said."

"I haven't? Well… all right." She took a breath. "I love you because…oh, _I _don't know—a thousand reasons."

"Start with one."

"Um. Honestly! You're rotten." Sam squirmed at how he put her on the spot.

"You love me because I'm rotten?—Ouch!" Sam had dug him in the flank.

"You jolly well deserved that. Right, then. Let me think." She hummed a little, screwing up her eyes to formulate some reasons. "I know! I've got one. Um. You _look_ _me in the eye._"

"I look you…?"

"…in the eye. Yes. Always. When we're opposite each other. Obviously not when I'm driving. When I'm driving, you look me in the ear. Where my eyes _would_ be if I were looking back at you. You see?"

"Mmmmmaybe."

"You're looking at me now. I know you are."

"I am." He was.

"Nobody has ever looked at me as much and as intently as you do. You look at me, and you say: _'Sam?'_ just like that—all sort of _searching_. _'Sam?'_. And then your eyebrows rise up in the middle and twitch like a puppy's…"

"Like a…?" Foyle's eyes went wide.

"Mm-hmm. You heard."

His face contorted into every possible expression as he struggled to restrain the beam that threatened to escape across his features.

"Sam?" he said.

"You see? You're doing it again. Do you want to hear the other nine-hundred and ninety-nine reasons?"

"Nup. That's fine," he said. "I've heard enough for now."

"Hard cheese. Another one: you swagger when you walk. I like that."

"Do you, now?"

"Mm-hmm. You keep your head right down, and hands in pockets—because you're thinking—and you sway, and place one foot before the other, like a tightrope-walker, or someone crossing a stream on stepping-stones. And your coat swings round you. I could watch you walk all day."

"You could?"

"I really could."

"Sam?"

"That's my name. Nine-hundred and ninety-eight reasons to g—"

He bent and stopped her lips, folding her up and into him across his chest. After a long time, he broke the kiss to give them both a chance to breathe. "Plenty of years to recite the other reasons," he said. "I just…mm…wanted a small taster." He licked his lips and looked into her eyes. "If you like, we could—um—move on to other things now…?"

"Like… dinner, you mean?"

His head tilted, as if weighing up the possibilities. "Well, dinner for a start… or even, _later…_"

* * *

**Friday evening, 15****th**** December 1944, eve of The Wedding**

"Mother, I said NO fox fur."

"I know, Darling," Geraldine cajoled, "but _this_ you'll like…"

Samantha's mother released the catches on her suitcase and slipped a hand inside under several layers of tissue-paper to draw forth… an arctic fox-fur shoulder-cape. No grinning heads or dangling tails; just one soft expanse of grey-white fur, with collar, simple hook to hold the front together, and two slits to feed one's arms through at the sides.

Sam was speechless—not, as she'd expected, with distaste. "Mummy, where on _earth_ did you get such a lovely thing?"

"Well, Dear," Geraldine's voice took on a confidential tone, "last year, Mrs Arbuthnot's effects went up for auction at the manor. Your father, when he heard that I was going, expected me to bring back a vintage garden-ornament. Naturally, when I saw _this_, it was love at first sight. I've never worn it—" Geraldine paused and placed a finger to her lips, "—never even _shown_ it to your father. It's been boxed-up in the loft, awaiting its big moment… and the garden-gnome I bought, to throw your father off the scent, is standing by the fish-pond, as testament to my innocence."

Sam grinned, but then looked longingly at the opulent fur cape. "I _do_ feel a little dowdy in my overcoat and frock..."

"Darling, olive green's a splendid colour on you in a dress, but perhaps forget the coat and wear the fur instead. Oh—and I brought you this… and these… and these." Geraldine dived back into her suitcase and produced the other items for Sam's trousseau.

Samantha had to smile. Her mama was definitely wasted in a vicarage. With effortless aplomb, her mother had assembled a complete wedding outfit: cream satin court shoes, a three-bloom spray of artificial silk gardenias with leaves, and elbow-length cream satin gloves.

She stroked the flowers, remembering how she'd seem them pinned to a ball-gown of her mother's when she was a child. Then she reached across and ran her hand across the cape, almost expecting it to undulate beneath her touch. "Well, maybe if I tried this on for just a moment…"

Geraldine gave a chuckle. "Darling, you're your mother's daughter. Don't ever imagine I don't understand you through and through."

The cape had padded shoulders, and a grey crêpe satin lining. It was immensely warm, although it only reached to just below Samantha's elbows.

Geraldine surveyed her daughter, laid a hand across her mouth and nodded in approval. "It gives you such a lovely line, Dear. And of course, the gloves come right up to your elbows, so you won't be cold."

Sam fed her hands experimentally through the arm-slits in the cape, and caressed the fur. "It's beautiful," she breathed.

"_You're_ beautiful, my darling. Christopher won't be able to take his eyes off you tomorrow." She kissed her daughter's cheek, and whispered, "Sadly, beauty comes at _such _a painful price—and in my bag you'll find three-dozen horrid Dinkies for your poor old hair…"

* * *

"Iain. Welcome. Please come in." Foyle stepped aside and held his arm out straight behind him, inviting his guest into the hallway of 31 Steep Lane. Here, on home territory for his third-ever meeting with Sam's father, Foyle was relaxed, and buoyant in his bonhomie.

"Let me take your coat and hat. Good journey in from Lyminster?"

"Thank you, very pleasant, considering the time of year. I've just left Geraldine at Samantha's. Our women apparently have Things to Do." Iain raised his eyebrows knowingly, before making a show of appreciating his surroundings. "This is all very nice. How long have you been living here?"

"Mmmost of my son's life. 20 years." Foyle felt just a little guilt as he consciously expunged Rosalind from the record. "Come in. Have a seat. Would you care for tea? A whisky? Not too early for one by now, I think?" He checked himself and raised a finger to his brow. "Um—tactless of me. I believe Samantha mentioned that you are teetotal?"

"No. A whisky would be very welcome, Christopher. If the truth be known—and celebration of the Eucharist apart—I never cared for wine, but my father taught me to appreciate a decent malt the day I reached sixteen. In his scheme of things, no self-respecting Scotsman ever passed up the offer of a dram. Samantha was correct, though—in adult life, I have aspired to abstinence. Throughout her childhood, I never kept alcohol in the house. Never, that is, until about a year into this wretched war."

"Whatever changed your mind?" Foyle's interest was genuinely piqued.

"News reached my ears that Hitler is teetotal. I resolved to controvert him."

Foyle's face broke into a broad grin. "Couldn't approve more. Make yourself at home, Iain. I'll put your bag in Andrew's room."

Iain Stewart sank into an armchair in the living room. "Your son, I gather, won't be coming to the wedding, Christopher?"

"Nnno. Communication problems—nothing ominous, but, fact is, I've no solid information as to where he actually _is_ at this time. Andrew's in the RAF—a Squadron Leader. Active service. My suspicion would be overseas, in Malta."

"I see. I'm sorry. You must be worried—by his absence, and… also about how he might react to this marriage."

Foyle tilted his head. "Mmm. Always worried for his safety, Iain, but in the other matter… He's my son. I love him. Always will. But… he'll either like the marriage, or he won't, in which case, we shall still be here when he eventually comes around." Foyle smiled a little ruefully, and raised the bag already in his hand. "I'll take this upstairs, then we can invade my liquor-stash."

Iain shifted in his chair to scan the room. Neat, comfortable. Faded chintz that spoke of one-time feminine influence. Shelves full of books. A gramophone. Some photographs… one of Christopher's late wife, he presumed, one of Andrew in his pilot-officer uniform, and one of Christopher himself, in shirtsleeves, smiling, hands on hips, and looking fondly down upon a child, squatting on a pebbled beach, intent on some small seashore curiosity or other.

This, then, was the home-ground of his future grandchild's father—a man some dozen years his junior, and approaching parenthood for the second time. Iain made a conscious effort to regress ten years or so, and think himself into the shoes of his soon-to-be-son-in-law. He felt a pang of sympathy. How would _he_ have felt or acted, had Geraldine presented him with a late infant in his fifties? He swallowed, and resolved to have a tactful word with his wife about _arrangements_, though he consoled himself that such an occurrence was surely now out of the question.

Iain was still musing idly over this hypothetical scenario, when his host returned.

"Glenlivet, Iain?" Foyle made for a recess in the bookcase, gathering two glasses and a bottle, almost full.

"I don't believe I've had a sip of that in eighteen months," remarked his guest, with undisguised enthusiasm.

"I'm fortunate—this bottle was a gift from a colleague." Foyle grinned, remembering the newspaper-wrapped package discovered on his desk on Wednesday morning. On close inspection, the wrapping had comprised three carefully-selected sheets from _The Daily Mirror,_ all showing the cartoon-strip character, _Jane_, in her scanties. The label on the present read _"For the man who has everything—Hugh"_.

"So, Iain—shall we show our joint contempt for Hitler and put a largeish hole in this?" Foyle halted mid-flow, clapping a hand to his forehead, "Oh—I do beg your pardon! Don't suppose you've eaten…?"

"Actually, not since lunch, no." Iain was apologetic. His appetite was clearly threatening to hold up planned proceedings with the scotch.

"Right. Well. Can't let you go hungry. Why don't you—um—pour us both a decent glass? I'll be just a moment. Sam made a shepherd's pie last night. We simply need to warm it in the oven." Foyle left the room to see to dinner, depositing the bottle and the whisky tumblers on a chenille-draped table.

Iain Stewart flexed his fingers and approached the tall, green whisky bottle with a reverence that owed nothing to his religious calling. He poured an inch of golden liquid into each of the two whisky tumblers, and placed one on the table next to where he guessed that Christopher would sit, carrying his own glass across to the armchair.

A moment later, Foyle returned. "All done in half an hour, I think," he grinned. "I found some mustard. Haven't any mint for mint sauce, I'm afraid."

Ian thanked him, rose, and raised his glass. "To long life and happiness, Christopher!" His lips anticipated a sip of liquid Heaven.

"Your very good health, Iain." Foyle returned the toast.

* * *

At least four whiskies and one lost sheep later….

"Iain?" confided Foyle, squinting at the older man through one unfocussed eye, "I _think_ I have a lot to thank you for."

"That may well be true," slurred Iain, whose brain, though still acute, was failing to operate his tongue quite smoothly. "But not in the straightforward sense." He paused to put some order in his thoughts. "I always… taught her to think for herself. So _why_ am I surprised when she surprises me?"

Foyle swirled his whisky in its glass and grinned, remembering his first encounter with Samantha. "She certainly surprised _me_ the very first day we met."

"She did?" Iain sat up straight-ish in his armchair, interest aroused.

Foyle nodded. "I was in hot pursuit of a suspect, and… she floored him with a dustbin-lid. Nonchalant as you like—didn't blink an eye." Foyle tipped his head and gaped as he recalled the scene. "Took my bloody breath away." He squinted down into his glass and failed, this time, to focus on the pattern at the bottom of the tumbler.

Iain's solemn face cracked. Back went his head emitting a loud guffaw that startled Foyle out of his drunken, pensive moment. "You know, she's never, _ever_, told me that?"

"Quite likely, she imagined that you'd haul her back to Lyminster if she had." Foyle smiled, remembering his conversations with Sam on that subject.

Iain nodded, raising an unsteady finger to his brow. "When she was out of reach, I always worried for her, Christopher. If anything, the fretting she endured from me… pushed her away from home, and, latterly, I imagine, towards you. She was—and is—my _child_, you see. For you, there's no dilemma to address—she's always been a woman to _you_. But a father never dreams his _child_ will make a woman's choices."

Foyle sobered. "No dilemma? Well, perhaps not now, but I fought my feelings for a long time. The great difference in our ages held me back, but… Samantha has confounded my expectations so often now… the battle's over." He sighed. "And I'm under no illusion—I'm the lucky winner here, and grateful that she made those choices, Iain. Nothing and no-one has been more precious to me in a long time—actually, ever." Foyle frowned, absorbing the full meaning of his own words. The photograph of Rosalind smiled sadly at him from across the room.

Iain hauled himself to his feet, and swayed as the sudden gain in height disturbed his alcohol-befuddled sense of balance. "Well then, embattled Christopher, since my _daughter_ isn't here to do the honours this time, I had better get you up to bed." He reached a half-unsteady hand to pull Foyle up out of his chair.

Foyle's mouth took on an impish curve as he reached up to grasp the proffered hand. "Iain, you asked me a blunt question last Saturday, so it's only fair I get to ask you the same one now: How old are you?"

"I'm sixty-two."

"How old is Geraldine?"

"She's forty-eight."

Foyle tutted archly through his smile: "That's quite a gap between your ages, Iain. I trust that Geraldine wasn't _influenced_ in her choice of you by _awe_ of your position as a cleric."

Though Iain towered over Christopher, he took the jibe in good part. "Well, you've met my wife," he said. "How much in awe d'you think she is of me or of my calling?"

"I think… we may have certain things in common, you and I," said Foyle. "And there'll be times when… maybe we should stick together."

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

Snow on The French Riviera in December is rare, but not unknown. There are recent pictures of a snowy beach in Nice, taken on Saturday 19th December 2009.

* * *

With regard to his wife's fertility, Ian would be well-advised to shake himself out of complacency. My maternal grandmother gave birth to her last child at the age of 47. The baby was her fourteenth—and grew up to be my mother. In some respects, the pregnancy was a relief, since, at her age, she had feared that she was growing a malignant tumour.

* * *

Tomorrow's a big day for Foyle and Sam. I'm off to visit YouTube for a dose of Stanley Holloway's star turn from "_My Fair Lady": #_ _Pull aaht the stoppah! Let's _'_ave a whoppah! And getmetothechurch on tiiiime! #_

* * *

More soon.

**GiuC**


	14. Chapter 14

**L'Aimant**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.

It's the morning of the wedding in two households.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Merivale, Sam's bohemian landlady, belongs to _dancesabove_, as does the excellent beta-work on this chapter.

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_Iain hauled himself to his feet, and swayed as the sudden gain in height disturbed his alcohol-befuddled sense of balance. "Well then, embattled Christopher, since my __**daughter **__isn't here to do the honours this time, I had better get you up to bed." He reached a half-unsteady hand to pull Foyle up out of his chair._

_Foyle's mouth took on an impish curve as he reached up to grasp the proffered hand. "Iain, you asked me a blunt question last Saturday, so it's only fair I get to ask you the same one now: How old are you?"_

_"I'm sixty-two."_

_"How old is Geraldine?"_

_"She's forty-eight."_

_Foyle tutted archly through his smile: "That's quite a gap between your ages, Iain. I trust that Geraldine wasn't __**influenced **__in her choice of you by awe of your position as a cleric."_

_Though Iain towered over Christopher, he took the jibe in good part. "Well, you've met my wife," he said. "How much in awe d'you think she is of me or of my calling?"_

_"I think… we may have certain things in common, you and I," said Foyle. "And there'll be times when… maybe we should stick together."_

* * *

**Chapter 14**

**Saturday, 16****th**** December 1944, 7 a.m.**

The groom awoke with an uncomfortably dry mouth that reminded him he'd narrowly escaped a devil of a hangover. The significance of the day ahead gradually penetrated his brain as he emerged from sleep, and his hand explored the mattress to his left, languidly conjuring Samantha in the place that, by this afternoon, would be her legally sanctioned spot. Contented with that thought, he sank his face into the pillow alongside him, breathing in the scent of her that lingered from Thursday morning—the last time Sam had slept at his side.

Forty-eight hours. He already felt the lack of her.

Foyle reached for the switch on the bedside lamp, and grinned in the dim light to see a glass of water on the cabinet. Iain, (he remembered now), had played the unsteady nursemaid on his way to bed.

A hefty swig of water slaked his thirst—a godsend in his parched state—and he sat up to get his bearings. This was Saturday. There were—he squinted at the Westclox—barely four hours to get ready for his wedding. By rights this should be plenty, but his imagination was somehow folding time to make the intervening hours seem like paltry minutes.

He sprang decisively from bed, scrabbled on the floor for his slippers and headed for the bathroom, where he ran himself a regulation-depth bath, and sank into the shallow water for an austerity soak. Shave and ablutions over, he trotted downstairs in his dressing gown to play the host: warmth, tea and breakfast for Samantha's father.

At seven-forty-five, Iain Stewart was wakened by a light knock at his bedroom door, announcing Christopher, who entered quietly with cup of tea in hand. "Morning, Iain. Saturday's upon us, would you believe?"

Iain Stewart sat up slowly, running a hand through ample steel-grey hair. He yawned and stretched his eyes wide to align his faculties. "Tea! Extremely welcome, Christopher." Iain took an eager sip. "I passed into the land of nod the very second my head hit the pillow. _You_ were ahead of me, though."

Noting an embarrassed smirk from Foyle, Iain nudged the subject gently. "You slept well, I take it?"

"Like a log," Foyle answered, mugging sheepishly to underline his penitence. "A sozzled log—um—floating down a Speyside stream." Both men were grinning now, acknowledging the bridge they'd built the previous night between them, and then crossed. One thing felt certain—they would never be uneasy in each other's company again.

Foyle gestured with his head toward the curtained window. "Pea-souper outside—that's our coastal Decembers for you. Anyway—the bathroom's yours, old chap. I'll be making breakfast shortly." He left the room, granting his guest some privacy to pull himself together.

Iain climbed out of bed and drew back the heavy blackout drapes. Sure enough, the view was cloaked beneath a soft, white winter mist. The sun shone weakly, casting low-angled hazy rays that barely pierced the billowing swirls of ground-cloud.

Memories closed in on him as he leant on the window sill to peer outside. _Given half a chance, I would have wrapped her up in cotton wool till Kingdom come, _thought Iain, _and now the weather's mocking me by shrouding all of Hastings in this fog of cotton wool..._

Pulling on his dressing gown, he took the measure of the room where he'd just spent the night. _Christopher's son's bedroom._ The bookshelf was replete with adventure novels: Joseph Conrad's _Lord Jim_, Jack London's _Call of the Wild_ and _White Fang_, but also an extensive set of Edgar Rice Burroughs' Barsoom novels, set on the planet Mars. Iain smiled, remembering how he'd found his daughter reading one or two of those: tall tales of warlike, defiant warrior-princesses fighting bravely alongside their men—men whose chivalry and sense of honour knew no bounds.

Iain took a moment to curse the war that required fathers to offer up their sons for sacrifice, and considered himself lucky that, in the general scheme of things, Samantha was kept relatively safe from harm. There were worse wartime fates than marriage to a decent man and motherhood, he mused.

* * *

By a quarter to nine, the men had breakfasted, and Iain Stewart disappeared upstairs to finish dressing. Foyle, still in his robe, cleared the kitchen table, then headed for the staircase to do the very same. Instead, he was distracted by a letter lying on the mat by the front door. He padded down the hallway to retrieve it, intent on placing it on the hall-stand for attention later, but the writing on the envelope pulled him up sharp—the hand was Andrew's.

He squinted at the postal markings, but they defied all scrutiny—_BPO_, a number that meant nothing to him, and a rubber-stamped invitation to_ DIG FOR VICTORY_. It was quite pointless attempting to decipher where the item had been posted. After several moments, Foyle realised he had been holding his breath, and exhaled. He flipped the envelope over and slid his finger underneath the flap, slitting the letter open with swift, practised strokes. Inside, he found three folded pages.

_Andrew has a lot to say._

Withdrawing to the living room, he sat and leant his elbow on the arm of the settee, resting one finger on his brow. As he digested the letter's contents, the corners of his mouth turned down and his brows knitted several times in what could have passed for either concentration or displeasure.

"All good news, I trust, Christopher?" Iain Stewart strode into the room, neatly groomed and kitted out in mid-grey waistcoat, shirt and burgundy tie, and eye-catching maroon braces.

"Hmm?" Foyle tore his attention from the letter. "Aah—yes—all… fine. Just… dealing with some correspondence," he mumbled.

Rising from the settee, he pushed the envelope and written pages haphazardly into the deep pocket of his dressing gown, then switched his tone of voice abruptly to the jovial. "And I think... it's high time I climbed into my wedding suit." He widened his eyes in appreciation of his crisply shirted guest. "You're well ahead of me, Iain…" _No dog-collar today,_ he noted, "… and in mufti too, I see."

Iain fiddled with his tie a little sadly. "I assure you, Christopher, a clergyman is never off-duty, but Geraldine felt… a clerical collar would only serve to _undermine_ the _civil _ceremony." He paused, rediscovering his good cheer: "Bring my grandchild to Lyminster for the christening," he said brightly, "and I'll show you how it's really done!"

Foyle grinned and patted Iain on the shoulder. "You're on!" and turned to make his way upstairs.

The doorbell rang when Foyle was halfway up the staircase. He hesitated, then called down "Um, Iain? I'm expecting two deliveries this morning. That will either be the florist or… the other parcel. Would you be kind and get the door? I really should go up and dress."

* * *

It was five past ten, and Brookie was running a full fifteen minutes early when he drew up outside Miss Stewart's lodgings. He glanced into the rear-view mirror of the Wolseley to check his appearance. Everything looked to be in order. Uniform brushed and pressed, silver buttons polished, hair neatly Brylcreemed, no bits of toast left stuck between his teeth. That, plus a full set of regulation thermal underwear to stop him shivering when standing about, as you did on these occasions—_Yeah, _he reckoned he'd do. In five minutes he would knock the door and withdraw discreetly to the side of the vehicle, standing to attention. That was good form, he decided—showing them he didn't expect to be asked inside.

Brooke was looking forward to today, and particularly proud to be involved in the proceedings. When you considered how he'd landed in the doghouse with the boss last week, this was a downright bloody miracle.

Quarter past ten. Brookie climbed out of the Wolseley, setting his cap carefully on his head and bending down to adjust it through the wing-mirror. Passing around the bonnet of the car, he inspected a large and awkwardly tied boss of white ribbon attached to the W-shaped bonnet-ornament, and gave a quick tug to check it was secure. Satisfied with his handiwork, he marched up to the front door and rapped the knocker confidently.

Before he had a chance to retreat to the car as planned, the door flew open, revealing a petite, be-kaftaned lady, grey hair pulled into a ballerina bun. Two bright cat's eyes, the arresting colour of peridots, stared up at him expectantly. It was Merivale, Miss Stewart's landlady: "Ah _wonderful!_ The gentleman _chauffeuuur _we've been expecting!" came the reed-like voice.

"Sergeant Brooke, Madam." Brooke drew himself up tall, which was considerably taller than Meri, and saluted. "Calling to collect Miss Stewart and Mrs Stewart."

"Indeed you are!" She looked him up and down avidly, then turned her head and called "Samaanthaa…?" reverting her attention immediately back to Brooke. "Now _do _step inside, my dear, and wait in the hall. It's _sahch_ a chilly morning, and we can't have you shivering out there on the doorstep. You'll do yourself a mischief." She took a startled Brookie by the arm and steered him indoors.

Nonplussed at her assertiveness, Brooke snatched the cap down from his head and parked it apprehensively against his chest, fixing his attention hopefully on the staircase. He wasn't normally this jumpy, but the concentrated female aura in the house was playing merry hell with his electrics.

"Brookie? Is that you?" Samantha's voice floated down the stairs with airy nonchalance.

Brooke stuck a finger underneath his jacket collar. "Yes, Miss Stewart. Morning. No rush at all. But we should probably be off in about fifteen minutes, if that suits all right."

"She'll be ready, Sergeant." Mrs Stewart appeared briefly at the top of the staircase, clad in a dark blue knee-length coat with a fur collar, and a jaunty, tilt-brimmed navy hat.

Five minutes later came Samantha in a swathe of fox-fur, colour of the outdoors mist, and looking every inch the winter bride. Her hair was piled high on her head, pinned into a mass of curls, and woven into them was the spray of silk gardenias supplied by Geraldine.

Brooke stared up at her in awe, clutching his cap more tightly to his chest. "You look a picture, Miss! The boss is going to think he's marrying the Christmas Angel."

"Oh, I'm not sure, Brookie; I should think he'll know it's me!" Sam joked as she descended. At the bottom of the stairs, she turned to thank her landlady. "Meri, you've been wonderfully understanding—and thanks for lending me this lovely bag." Samantha stroked the ivory leather drawstring purse with her gloved hand. "We'll see you at The Royal V at twelve, then?"

"My pleasure, Dear. And what a treat to celebrate over luncheon! Shall we see _you_ there, too, Sergeant?" Meri laid her hand on Brooke's sleeve, peering up at him inquiringly.

Brookie preened. "Oh, yes, Madam. My, er, ladyfriend and I are invited to the wedding reception."

"Aaah! Your _ladyfriend!_" winked Meri. "I should have known a nice young man like you would not be _loose_ and unattached."

"Oh Meri, put him _down_—you've had your breakfast!" teased Sam. And Brookie's colour rose to scarlet round his cheeky grin.

"I haven't had _my _breakfast, though." Geraldine sailed through the front door past a suddenly nervous-looking Brooke. "I couldn't face a single bite this morning. Most unusual. I put it down to the excitement." She broke off, in response to Brooke's bewildered face. "Oh, don't worry, Sergeant. You're quite safe with the mother of the bride. I've gone without my breakfast on occasion."

* * *

Brooke brought the Wolseley to a halt outside the municipal building which housed the Hastings Register Office ten minutes before Foyle's instructed deadline of ten-fifty. Chatting as they waited on the steps were Iain Stewart, Foyle, Hugh Reid, his wife Elaine, and the Milners. All the men were sporting button-holes in their lapels, and Edie and Elaine had full flower-sprays pinned to their coats.

The morning mist had lifted only slightly, so it was through a semi-opaque, milky haze that Foyle first saw his bride emerging from the rear seat of the Wolseley. Brooke held the door open for Samantha, and as she took a step towards the front of the vehicle, Foyle's vision of her cleared and hit him with all the force of a punch delivered to the solar plexus. She looked exquisite. For a start, he'd never seen her in so opulent an outfit, and the combination of olive green and ivory suited her colouring better than he could have imagined. But the image she projected affected him more deeply than he dared express in open view. Foyle shifted his stance subtly, warding off the difficult effect the sight of her was having on him in a public place.

Towering over Foyle by several inches, Hugh Reid was ideally placed to spot the nuances in his friend's behaviour. Noting the tell-tale fidget, he leaned down and whispered impishly in the groom's ear, "Steady on, old man. Don't want you tripping over any _obstacles_ on your way upstairs." Unfortunately for Hugh, his wife's keen ears caught wind of the exchange. Smiling with intense sweetness, Elaine slid her foot sedately over the top of her husband's, and ground her heel into his instep, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from her mischievous spouse.

Foyle leaned round Hugh and tipped his hat to Mrs Reid. "Elaine. So grateful you could join Hugh here this morning."

"You're very welcome, Christopher," she smiled. "It doesn't do to leave dumb animals roaming off the leash."

Recovered from his momentary distraction, Foyle removed his hat and pushed it into Hugh's hands with a well-aimed barbed remark about height and hat-stands, then trotted down the Registry steps to meet Samantha. He was carrying the bouquet intended for his bride, and Iain Stewart followed, with a posy for Samantha's mother.

Foyle cast his eyes down and took Sam's gloved hand. "Darling," he whispered in her ear, "can't tell you how breathtaking you look." Smiling a fond "Hello, my sweet," Sam's eyes never left Christopher's as he raised her hand up to his lips and kissed it. "Glad you like the new me," she confided. "You don't know how I've suffered in the service of glamour! Whatever will you think of me now, on days when I look a fright?" Foyle grinned, and fed her hand through his arm, grasping it to his chest, and planting the bouquet between her fingers—a fragrant mix of freesia, amaryllis and carnations. "I'll take you any old how, and bless my good fortune," he assured her, eyes twinkling.

Together they walked the length of the Wolseley. As they passed the boss of ribbon tied to the bonnet, Foyle stopped and raised an eyebrow to appraise Brooke's unartistic handiwork. "Very thoughtful, Brooke. Just—um—make sure it's gone before the car next goes out on official business?"

"Sir!" Brookie beamed at the attention.

"Oh—and please would you arrange taxis for an hour's time to ferry people to The Royal Victoria?"

"Yes, Mr Foyle. Done in a jiffy."

Leaving Brooke in charge of transport, everyone else formed a retinue and filed into the building behind Sam and Foyle.

On their way up the broad staircase, Foyle squeezed Sam's hand, still firmly clutching the bouquet, and breathed, "You're lovely… make me very proud. And actually,the loveliness is absolutely independent of the outfit."

Sam shot him an old-fashioned look. "You'd better hold _that_ sort of thought for later in the day."

* * *

That morning, the following record was entered on the Hastings Register for eventual submission to the East Sussex Record Office archives in Lewes:

_16 Dec P40/1/44_

_Christopher Bellwood FOYLE of Hastings wdr _

_Samantha Evelyn STEWART of Lyminster sp aged above 21 years_

_at Hastings _

_Registrar: Ernest R. GRIFFITHS _

With business before the Registrar complete, Sam spoke urgently under her breath to Christopher: "Your middle name is _Bellwood?!_"

"Mmm. That's right. You haven't read my ration book?"

"Actually _no_. _You_ always seem to be doing the joint shopping. Wherever did you get a name like that?"

"Um. My… father's… mother's maiden name."

"Makes you sound… aloof and enigmatic—like the brooding master of a mansion high up on the moors."

"Close enough, then. I live on a hill, have no time at all for idiots, and chew my cheek."

Sam snickered, drawing raised eyebrows from the Registrar and the ever-nosy Hugh, who had just endorsed the record with his signature next to that of Edith Milner.

"Silence in the cheap seats!" Reid commanded affably. "We're engaged in serious business here."

"Rely on Hugh to uphold the dignity of any formal occasion," observed Elaine laconically from the rear.

Amused by Hugh's attempt to look hurt and offended, Christopher turned back to his bride. "By the way, have I told you how very—um—delicious you look today, Mrs Foyle?" Christopher stroked Samantha's un-gloved left hand, lingering over her fourth finger, which now bore a wedding band as well as her engagement ring.

"You might have mentioned it already, Mr Foyle. Once or twice."

"Just making sure you'd heard above the animal chatter." Blinking in slow motion, he looked pointedly at Hugh.

* * *

Iain Stewart had been growing misty-eyed from the moment of seeing Samantha emerge from the Wolseley, and once the ceremony began before the registrar, Geraldine wasn't far behind him. Not generally disposed to cry at weddings, and being more inclined to revel in the joy of such occasions, today, for who-knew-what reason—she presumed because of Sam—her emotions welled up, threatening to overtake her. Geraldine dabbed furiously at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, hoping against hope that her make-up would not run and turn her into an old fright for the wedding reception.

"There, there, my dear" Iain patted her arm.

"This isn't me at all!" she sniffed. "Absolutely nothing to cry for. Is my mascara running?"

Iain patiently led his wife to one side, took her handkerchief, and started to repair her face. As he leant down over her, intent on his task, the memory came back to him of how they'd made a miracle together all those years ago. When he had finished wiping the last smear of sooty residue from her cheek, he stole a kiss.

"Iain!" Geraldine appraised her husband's fond expression. "I should make you leave your collar off more often..."

* * *

Moments later downstairs in the foyer, the wedding party stood laughing and chatting as they waited for their taxis. Sam and Foyle stayed to keep their guests company, though they were travelling with Brookie in the Wolseley.

"Edie, I do hope all the standing hasn't been too much," said Sam, concerned for her friend, who had recently moved into wearing smocks.

"Oh, it's important to have exercise, the doctor says. My legs might ache a little from time to time, but it's been such a pleasure to come and see you married, I've hardly noticed, really. Paul has been so full of your news at home, I was delighted to be asked." Edie drew her smiling husband to her.

"Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Foyle." Paul grasped his boss's hand and shook it warmly. Then, as he bent to kiss Sam's cheek, he said, "I hear you're staying on a while at work. I'm glad—things wouldn't be the same without you."

"Thank you, Paul," Sam beamed.

"Limited period only," supplied Foyle in qualification. "Samantha's staying in post until—what d'you think, Sam? February? Time to get your bearings, and for Head Office to find me a proper replacement. Then we'll see…"

"Yes, that's right, Darling; we'll see." Sam squeezed Christopher's hand in a show of complicity.

Brooke entered to announce the taxis had arrived, and approached the happy couple to congratulate them both. "Mr and Mrs Foyle, my profound felicitations! Your chariot awaits!" He gave a faux theatrical bow, gesturing in the direction of the Wolseley.

"Right," Foyle deadpanned. "Appreciate it, Brooke." _Trust we didn't drag you away from a promising amateur stage career over in Deptford Green,_ he observed inwardly.

* * *

To everyone's delight, they emerged from the building to find the mist had burned away, yielding finally to the delicate persistence of the winter sun.

In the back seat of the Wolseley, Foyle drew his bride into his arms and kissed her with lingering intensity. "You brought the sun out, Darling," he began, but in the middle of the kiss, his police antennae picked up interference. "Eyes on the road, Brooke," Foyle admonished placidly.

At which point, as Brookie cheerfully changed up a gear, the young sergeant could've given The Cheshire Cat a run for its money in any national grinning competition.

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

I really wanted to send Sam and Foyle to Lyminster for a service of blessing following their marriage, but it turns out no such service existed in the Anglican Prayer Book until rather later. Shame. It would've been nice to have Iain in the chair, so to speak.

* * *

More soon: reception, wedding night, that sort of thing…

**GiuC**


	15. Chapter 15

**L'Aimant**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

The guests gather for Foyle and Sam's wedding reception at The Royal Victoria, Hastings.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Merivale, Sam's bohemian landlady, belongs to _dancesabove_, (who fixes mine as well as writing her own – thank you _dances_)_._

_..._

_Pex_ were, and still are, a UK brand of children's hosiery..

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_To everyone's delight, they emerged from the building to find the mist had burned away, yielding finally to the delicate persistence of the winter sun._

_In the back seat of the Wolseley, Foyle drew his bride into his arms and kissed her with lingering intensity. "You brought the sun out, Darling," he began, but in the middle of the kiss, his police antennae picked up interference. "Eyes on the road, Brooke," Foyle admonished placidly._

_At which point, as Brookie cheerfully changed up a gear, the young sergeant could've given The Cheshire Cat a run for its money in any national grinning competition._

* * *

**Chapter 15**

**Saturday, 16****th**** December 1944, 12:30 p.m.**

Much as the elegance and distinction of the Royal Victoria Hotel, Hastings (more accurately, St Leonards-on-Sea) shone like a beacon in its celebrated history, the austerity of wartime had nevertheless left the establishment feeling the pinch. It was therefore with some relief that DCS Foyle's booking for a wedding luncheon had been received one week before, and members of the hotel staff were now bustling around to make things ready for the modest-sized contingent expected shortly after noon.

When the bride and groom arrived in convoy from the Registry, two taxis bringing up the rear, those guests not asked to attend the ceremony across town earlier in the day were already gathered in (or near) the first-floor private dining room adjacent to the Sea Terrace Restaurant. Florrie was craning her neck over an impressive balustrade into the stairwell below, looking eagerly for Brooke; and Sam's Uncle Aubrey had taken Merivale aside to discuss the merits of a lusty home-made greengage wine over common-or-garden rose-petal—Meri was proposing they exchange samples at the earliest opportunity. Sam's two friends from the MTC, Beryl Lang and Betty Pilkington (known collectively to Samantha as _The B's_), were in a sulk about the dearth of unattached young men attending the "do", and were already making plans to escape to the lounge bar as soon as decently they could.

"I'm going to snag myself a businessman," said Beryl.

"I wouldn't get your hopes up high," warned Betty. "The other week, I went out with a chap that travels for Pex socks, but there was such a belly on him, I'll wager it's been years since he's even _seen_ his feet—and _those_ were flat into the bargain. Still," she sighed, nibbling in frustration on a varnished fingernail, "he had nice eyes. And lots of useful samples—I was getting low on ankle-socks. The larger children's sizes fit my dainty feet."

"Isn't life wonderful?" groaned Beryl. "Christmas coming up. No food, no fuel, no stockings, and no decent-looking single men."

* * *

The grand sweep of the marble staircase, dominated by its imposing twenty-foot gilt mirror, fed Sam's excitement as she climbed the stairs ahead of Christopher. She turned to share her rush of pleasure with her husband, "This is quite something isn't it? I've _never_ been upstairs in here before. So different from simply turning up for tea or a quick snifter!"

Foyle met her glowing expression with a smile. The Royal V was no great novelty to him, police business having brought him here on numerous occasions, but, as so very often these days, he felt Samantha's enthusiasm bolstering his own. He trotted up the intervening stairs to draw level with her, and placed an arm around her waist, tilting his head to appraise his wife with open admiration.

Samantha's eager face brought back to him that one occasion in The Crescent Hotel tea-lounge when she'd earned his professional regard, nonchalantly gleaning valuable information from a nervous waitress. He'd leaned back in his chair, hands folded in his lap, and smiled indulgently as she claimed, then snaffled, the last lemon curd sandwich as her reward. _I didn't even realise I loved her then_, he thought. _But watching her devour those sandwiches brought such a flood of warmth, how could I have been so obtuse? She had no inkling I was studying her—far too intent on lemon curd to notice._ A crooked smile played round Foyle's mouth. He drifted into a brief fantasy of leaning forwards across the tea-table and capturing the last trace of lemon curd direct from his young driver's lips. _Would she have fled…? or kissed me back? How far we've come..._

Sam met his eyes and giggled. "Do you recall the time I made a shameless play at charming you over tea once in a hotel lounge? The Crescent, wasn't it? It was such a _coup_ to make you smile the way you did."

_Dear God, she's read my mind again. _He halted their ascent and brought her hand up to his lips. "My sweet girl, had I realised the way your mind—um—worked inside hotels, we'd have made our way here a darn sight sooner. So, by all means,"—he paused to kiss her properly—"let's see what delights this elegant establishment has in store for us today."

* * *

The consensus among the gathered guests was warmly approving of the meal. Indeed, the hotel had even managed to produce a very imposing "wedding cake"—in reality, a three-tier hollow cardboard cake-shaped case, "iced" with plaster and delicately painted with what resembled sugar flowers. But though the lifting of the case to reveal the rather smaller, plainer offering underneath caused just a little mirth among the guests, the cake itself was perfectly tasty.

Prior to the meal, Milner and Aubrey had taken turns at employing Paul's box Brownie camera, and staged some cheerful wedding pictures in the hotel foyer and upstairs in the private dining room.

Both Iain Stewart and Hugh Reid made speeches following the luncheon. Iain's, as to be expected, was a paean to his daughter, but also made specific mention of his son-in-law—a _decent man who commands both her respect and adoration_. It was well-received, not least by Samantha, who leant across to kiss her husband tenderly the moment that her father mentioned him by name.

Hugh Reid's affair turned out to be a prize performance, albeit narrowly salvaged from a shaky start. Elaine had vetted her husband's manuscript the evening before, and as Hugh rose to read it out to the assembled party, holding his flimsy written notes aloft, sunlight which was streaming in from the window behind him shone through the paper, revealing large tracts of text that had obviously been scored-through with thick black lines. Brooke and Florrie snickered audibly, but Elaine continued smiling down upon the tablecloth, serenely satisfied that her husband was about to serve up the _expurgated _version of his speech.

Reaching the final paragraph of what had been a fairly uninspiring ramble, and just short of total capitulation to the controlling instincts of his spouse, Hugh got second wind and made a last-ditch break for freedom. Folding away his censored script, he shoved one hand, statesmanlike, into the side-pocket of his trousers and launched like Livingstone into uncharted territory.

"Now, I'm _not _saying that this pair here hit if off as soon as they clapped eyes on each other," he told his audience, "but something definitely worked its way under Christopher's skin the day Samantha walked into the station. He had this half-stunned look about him, and a definite…well… a _fidget_, as if someone had laced his clothes with itching powder." (snorts and snickers from the audience).

"For a day or two after Samantha joined us, and judging purely from the constipated look on Christopher's face, I thought he'd probably been landed with a tricky case he couldn't handle, or even that the Westminster leg of our outfit might have stuck a finger in his pie—he _definitely_ doesn't like that when it happens!" (guffaws from the police contingent, including Sam).

"Turns out _somebody_ had made a big hole in his pie-crust—but it wasn't the Top Brass." (hearty haw-haws from the guests).

"Now—those of you who know Christopher, know him to be a calm, resourceful sort of man," (hums and nods of agreement) "but Samantha's arrival was just about the biggest shake-up in his working-life I've ever witnessed. At the time, I didn't understand quite _why_, and put it down to the effects of an _invasion by the monstrous regiment of women_," (he boomed that last bit in Churchillian mode—chuckles from the male contingent; ladies' eyes raised coolly to the ceiling).

"But that's not really Christopher's style. Because he's a sophisticated chap, isn't he? If he sees convention stretched or even broken-with, he'll judge a situation on its merits and his own terms—this is _not_ a man to toe the party line. Oh yes—Samantha shook him up all right. But _not_ because she's a woman"— Hugh paused with an impish show of gallantry and bowed to the bride—"though she _is_ one, by George, and a very…_very_ lovely one at that..."

Sam's colour climbed a dozen shades under her husband's appreciative beam as Hugh continued. "No. Samantha shook him up because she's…" (here, Hugh assumed a confidential tone) "_actually, _she's _Christopher in a skirt_." (baritone guffaws, soprano giggles threatening to derail the speech) "No! Please!" Hugh raised a hand to calm the crowd. "No. Don't misunderstand me. I know Christopher very well from working closely with him all these years, and Sergeant Milner has been kind enough to share his fond impressions of Samantha. And _yes, _they're different in many ways—only one of them looks fetching in a skirt, for starters…" (more mirth from the assembled party) "but I can tell you this: they _both_ believe in _fairness_, and in _duty_; both of them will all but burst a valve to do their bit—however _constrained_ they might feel by their positions, or their circumstances."

Foyle frowned modestly at Hugh's gracious nod to his thwarted career-ambitions in Intelligence. Sam reflected ruefully on the hard time she had had breaking away from her background and forging an independent path in life.

Hugh returned to his train of thought, and fixed his audience, indicating Foyle and Sam with outstretched hand. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I look at this couple, and I see a clever, quiet, deliberative man, knocked for six by the vivacity and gusto of a serious, diligent young woman, who has looked beyond the grizzled surface—though that 'surface' isn't bad, but frankly, old man—heh!—you're not my type—" (more grunts and giggles from the audience; a patient, sardonic look from Foyle) "Thank you. As I was saying… she looks beyond the surface, and sees qualities of character so _arresting_" (groans from the assembly) "Thanks again. So _arresting_ that she promptly puts down roots and looks no further. And so, Ladies and Gentlemen…" He rose, and raised his glass. "I give you: Mr and Mrs Foyle—Christopher and Samantha!" The others rose to join him in the toast, and murmurs of "Christopher and Samantha" echoed round the room.

As Hugh resumed his seat to enthusiastic applause from the assembled company, he cocked an eyebrow at Elaine and preened, "You see? My public loves me, _unedited_, thank you."

"Your _public_," retorted Elaine, "would _not_ have loved the joke about the tart and the stirrup pump. _Nor_ the anecdote involving the barrage balloon and the YWCA washing-line hung with women's knickers. Or, for that matter, your recipe for ration-beating rat risotto. _However,_" she paused, and placed her hand on his, "for the rest of your _amazing _speech… _I _love you, never mind your public."

"Really?" Hugh was bucked, and started grinning like an idiot.

"Mmm. Really," reassured Elaine. "You did extremely well."

"You know," Hugh's face took on a pained expression. "My instep is still _very _sore from where you ground your heel into it this morning."

"Rub it for you later," said Elaine. "Provided you don't blot your copybook and reoffend before we leave."

* * *

In due course, Brooke was detailed to take Meri home. He had already dropped off the Stewarts' suitcases at The Royal Victoria, as well as two pre-packed overnight bags for the newlyweds—all four of them were staying overnight at the hotel after the celebrations. Sam's Uncle Aubrey, who had kindly offered to step in at Lyminster the next day and take the Sunday services for Iain, had already left to get the train.

After dropping Meri off_—"Hasn't it been a lovely party, Sergeant? Such witty company! So many nice new friends!"—_Brooke's duties for the day were done, and he would be free to spend the evening with his lady.

Unsurprisingly, Florrie had jumped at the chance of riding in the Wolseley and seemed to be having a jolly old time in the rear seat with Merivale, calling Brookie "James" and telling him not to spare the horses (and similar quips so old they'd grown a beard). Brooke had borne it all patiently, counting the minutes to being off-duty and alone in charge of a powerful vehicle with his girl beside him in the front seat—or, if he was lucky, in the back seat, provided they could find a quiet spot along a lane.

'Florrie in a motor car away from civilisation' was a new and dangerous phenomenon. "Ooh Ian, have a feel of these nice leather seats!" Now it was just the two of them, she ran her hand caressingly over the upholstery next to her thighs, regarding him shyly from under her eyelashes. "You've been looking so _smart_ all day in your uniform."

"You reckon, Flo?" he sniffed, smoothing his jacket proudly.

"Mmm. But you must be _dying_ to loosen your collar a bit. So did you see the actual ceremony?" chattered Florrie, nonchalant enough to make a bit of harmless conversation as a preamble.

"No I was outside, uh, dealing with"—Brooke cleared his throat importantly—"ve_hic_ular transportation for the wedding party."

"Coo. Well anyhow, I 'ope the wedding went off better than my cousin Ada's."

"Oh?" Brooke shot her an inquisitive look. "What happened to your cousin, then?"

"They turned up at the Registry Office on the day, all in a tizz, and with me brother Vic in tow as witness—you've met our Vic?"

Brooke had. "Yeah, Vic— 'e wrestles for the Navy, when he isn't sinking Jerries, right?"

"That's right. So anyhow, they walk into the office all done up in suits and flowers, and Ada in 'er wedding 'at. The bloke behind the desk looks at 'em down 'is nose, and sez, all posh: 'Saah, this is the Water Board. The Registrar is hup a floor and second on your left.' 'Is that so?' sez our Vic. 'Well, seein' as they're 'ere now, you can cut their ruddy water off instead.' Our Vic was in a right old crabby mood that day—he'd just found out our Ada was expecting."

Brooke rubbed his nose and totted up the implications of the tale. "Yeah. Well. Um. Flo? P'raps we should go back now—catch the early show at the pictures, eh?"

* * *

Back at The Royal Victoria, the wedding party had dispersed. Hugh and Elaine had left for home, sharing a taxi with the Milners, and The B's had buzzed off to the bar. This left the Stewarts and the freshly-minted Foyles relaxing in the hotel lounge over cups of tea.

"Your friend Mr Reid is quite an original act, Christopher," observed Sam's mother.

"I'd say he has the makings of a most persuasive preacher," added Iain.

"Provided that his jokes are filtered through Elaine," smirked Foyle. "Otherwise, he's bound to lose the ladies in his congregation pretty quickly."

"What did we miss?" asked Geraldine.

"Don't ask. Hugh is one of the sharpest men I know, and possibly the cleverest move he ever made was marrying Elaine." Foyle paused to contemplate his own intelligent selection of a partner, and squeezed Samantha's hand.

"You know, I'm rather tired." Sam yawned pointedly, stroking Christopher's sleeve.

"Are you, my love?" Foyle turned a doting look upon her. "I think then, we should be thanking your parents for all their help, and making our way upstairs."

Iain consulted his watch. It was half past five. He cleared his throat and turned to Geraldine. "It has been a long day, hasn't it, my dear? Shall we go up as well, and have a short rest before dinner?"

"A little quiet time wouldn't go amiss, Darling," smiled Geraldine. "Now Samantha, your father and I will be dining in the Sea Terrace around eight. I don't expect that we shall see you there, but breakfast together tomorrow before we leave for Lyminster would be nice. Not that I'm insisting. Only if you think you'd like to… Christopher?"

Sam gave Christopher a 'that's all right with me' smile, so he nodded and accepted the invitation. "We'd be pleased to, Geraldine. Now, if you'll excuse us, we'll be taking a little quiet time of our own…."

Sam bent to kiss her mother. "Mummy," she whispered, "have a jolly good look at me before I leave, because tomorrow, the old Samantha will be back again. I'm glad I'm not a movie star—they have to do this glamour _every_ day, and it's _exhausting_."

Geraldine looked up at her. "I know exactly how you feel, my sweet, but dread the day when you no longer shake yourself and make the effort. _That's_ when you know the end is nigh."

Iain looked down at his wife and daughter, whispering together in a huddle, and placed a hand on Christopher's shoulder. "I don't need to tell you, Christopher, that the future will be interesting. But I'm happy you'll be able to help Samantha deal with motherhood, having raised one child already."

"If I know Sam, she'll teach _me_ more than I can her," observed Foyle wryly. "And as for bringing up children, there are lessons from the first time I have yet to learn." _One should never be complacent, or imagine that the job of parent is complete,_ he thought guardedly, mindful of Andrew's letter in the pocket of his dressing gown.

Geraldine watched the newlyweds walk upstairs arm in arm. "Good," she whispered to her husband. "Samantha has a point about this glamour. My shoes are killing me, my stockings itch, my underwear is chafing, my head aches, and I _want_ a _nap_."

Iain put a hand under his wife's elbow to help her up from her seat. "I detect a prayer somewhere inside that litany of complaints. Perhaps if you rephrase it on the way upstairs, the Good Lord will indulge you…?"

_"O Lord, deliver me from scratchy stockings.."_ mumbled Geraldine, inaudibly.

* * *

Sam gaped at the luxurious bedroom suite. A bed of generous proportions—a divan, no less. She thought that she could probably lie sideways on it and still have to point her feet to reach the edge. Tentatively, she perched on the side of the mattress and bounced experimentally. _Lovely, bouncy springs._

"Christopher, can we have one of these at home?"

"Mmmmaybe, if we knock the bedroom wall out and, um, let the bed-base overhang the staircase. Otherwise, I'd say we'd better stick with what we've got. For now, at least."

"Come and feel the bounce in this divan." She bobbed a little more enthusiastically, and loosened several curls, which fell across her forehead.

Foyle reached and pushed them back in place, letting his hand drift to her shoulder. "You'll spoil your lovely hairstyle with this bouncing."

"Oh, I hope so. My head aches from wearing my hair up all day." Sam shook the curls back down, and set about dislodging others with her fingers. Then she started to unpin the lot, beginning with the silk gardenia spray. "A souvenir," she pressed the flowers into Christopher's hands. He sniffed the flowers experimentally. And, sure enough: _L'Aimant_. The fragrance had been next to him all day, and now he leaned across to sink his nose into Samantha's hair. Her aroma was intense and sensual.

Christopher stroked Sam's shoulders, trailing kisses down her forehead and nose to meet her lips, now parted in anticipation.

"Mrs Foyle," he teased, "I sense a certain wantonness, unseemly in a married woman. Your husband certainly would not approve."

"He'll never know," she breathed, "unless you tell him."

"Not likely to do that, am I? He'd murder me in a fit of jealousy. Then who'd be left to catch the criminal?" Christopher pushed her gently back onto the mattress, leaning to recline at her side. Sam burrowed into him for kisses. There was unhurried tenderness there—a leisurely, sweet enjoyment of a now-familiar feast. His hand strayed down over her olive green dress, lingering on her barely swollen belly.

"I went to the public library," breathed Sam into his ear. "You're meant to count the weeks from even before we… well, in any case, it's nearly eight weeks. You won't see much difference here…" she stroked his hand upon her belly. "But here…" she dragged it up to rest upon her breast, "Some soreness. Even the seams on my, um, underclothes are chafing—it can be jolly uncomfortable if I twist in a certain way."

"One quick solution to that _particular_ problem would be… removal of the thing that chafes… " Foyle kissed down into the vee of her neckline, and fumbled with the pea-shaped fabric-covered buttons there.

"Darling, those are decorative," Sam told him patiently. "There's a zip at the side."

"Mmm? Show me." He propped himself up on one elbow, and Sam raised her left arm back above her head to reveal the fastening. "Oh, I see." He leaned across her, and eased the zip down all the way from armpit to hip. "Clever. But now you have to stand to take it off, unless"—he smiled—"I skin you like a rabbit as you're lying there."

Sam chuckled. "Mother always used to say to me when I was small, and she was undressing me for bed: 'skin a rabbit, Sam!', and I would reach my arms up—up above my head, and everything came off in one, leaving me in my cotton vest and knickers."

Foyle quirked a grin. "Sounds very efficient to me. Except you're lying down now, so you might have to… wriggle… to help things along."

Indeed it took a fair amount of wriggling—some of it exaggerated for effect—to get Sam's dress and petticoat up over her head and away. Once the top layers were peeled off, Foyle's attention settled on Sam's chafing underwear: an intricately tailored fashion item, certainly not designed for comfort. He grimaced and then tutted. "Considering all the seams on this, no wonder it's uncomfortable to wear, in your condition. Come on, arch up a bit, it's coming off…"

He reached around under her back and grappled with the hooks. Five or six at least. "Like getting into Fort Knox, Sam… um… hold on… fine. I've got it." Foyle drew the straps off her shoulders and removed the brassiere. He frowned. The tender flesh beneath was not a pretty sight. Angry-looking marks like weals—_no broken skin, thank goodness_—across the underside of her breasts below the darkened areolas she'd developed in more recent weeks.

He blinked, and looked aside in veiled exasperation. "You've tolerated this _all day_? For what?"

"Um. _Uplift and separation_, I suppose," she said, and realised she sounded just a little sheepish. Christopher's face turned grim. He pushed himself up, climbing off the bed, and made for the telephone that stood on a table by the window. Dialling a number, he spoke quietly into the phone. Then he returned to Sam and sat on the edge of the bed, next to her still-supine form. "There'll be a bathrobe somewhere," he said. "I'll get it for you. In a moment, they'll be bringing ice."

"Christopher!" Sam objected, "I really don't think I want ice on my… "

Foyle cut her off in an uncharacteristic show of annoyance. "Samantha, you look _very_ sore to me. You've suffered _all day _for a stupid fashion. I have sent for _ice._ In _ice-bags_. Two of them, to be precise. The ice will soothe the soreness." He picked the discarded brassiere irritably off the bed and ran his fingers round the insides of the cups. "To be fair, it doesn't feel that rough inside. Suppose it's just—the state of you," he mused. "I'll get that robe."

Sam sat up on her elbows and observed her husband wryly. Here she was, a new bride, in déshabillé—which, in her case, meant French knickers, suspender-belt, stockings and absolutely nothing else—and her husband, sweet, worried man that he was, instead of pressing his passionate attentions, was lecturing her on the unsuitability of her underwear, and ordering ice-packs for her bosoms. From room service, no less.

In her mind's eye, Sam was offering all of this as evidence in a committal hearing. Shortly, the men in white coats would be along to drag her ailing husband off for treatment in a benevolent, secure facility.

Sam snapped back to reality. Christopher had returned, and was holding open the promised bathrobe. "Put this on, Sweetheart—just for the time being. I shan't be inviting anyone into the room, but just in case… please, Samantha." His brows were raised, his expression insistent. Sam didn't argue.

They sat quietly together on the bed and waited for a knock. When it came, less than five minutes later, Foyle rose to answer the door, then returned towards the bed a moment later carrying two bulbous, pleated, mop-shaped ice-bags on a tray.

Sam looked sceptically from the ice-bags to her husband and back again. "I don't know…" she said.

"Trust me."

"I've heard _that_ before."

"Just lie back and open up your robe." Foyle stood over her, brandishing an ice-pack in each hand.

* * *

Meanwhile, on a different floor of the hotel, the Stewarts were confronting problems of an eerily similar nature.

Geraldine, in her customary no-nonsense way, had hurriedly shed every stitch of clothing as soon as the door to their room had closed behind them. Iain watched with a mixture of amusement and then growing interest. But Geraldine was in what she called an "itchy" mood, which meant that she had insufficient patience or attention-span to deal with her husband's reactions to her.

Having blissfully peeled off her brassiere—close comparison would have revealed it to be a very similar design to Sam's—she was still uncomfortable in the terry-cotton hotel robe she'd donned to cover herself, and set about plunging her hands underneath the wrap-over sides to keep the material from rubbing on her abnormally tender bosoms.

"Oh hang it, Iain, this is torture! I've a good mind to just leave the lot off and walk round naked."

Iain studied her for a moment, then decided action was a safer option than speech. He quietly disappeared into the en suite bathroom and soaked two face-flannels in cold water. Then he wrung them out tightly and brought them across to Geraldine.

"Try these, they might help a little," he smiled at her kindly. "Here, let me… just lie back…" Iain steered his wife onto the bed and she leant back, eyes closed, weary with it all.

"Oh, very well, if you must," Geraldine told him irritably. "Just, if you don't mind… _no sudden moves._" Her dark eyes opened a crack and met her husband's gentle grey-blue. _Sudden moves_, she reflected, were no longer the three-to-four times weekly occurrence that they once had been, but neither were they _all that_ rare. And hotels had a tendency to provoke her husband to _suddenness_, in her experience.

Still, there was such a soft entreaty in his eyes as he pulled apart her robe and laid the damp cloths gently on her, that all her irritation melted. Geraldine placed her hand over his. "Iain, come and lie here by me. Hold my hand. I'm sorry that I snapped."

Needing no further invitation, Iain Stewart bent to loosen his shoelaces and kicked off his shoes. Then he climbed onto the bed next to Geraldine, closed his eyes and lowered his head onto her shoulder, feeling blindly for her hand.

"No sudden moves," he reassured her, pressing a soft smile into her terry robe.

"Nothing sudden," she answered, sinking comfortably into slumber. "For an hour or so, at least."

"An hour. Or so."

Iain yawned, relaxing against his wife. As he often did before drifting off to sleep, he prayed.

_Dear Father, _

_Grant Samantha happiness and peace in her married life, as I have been fortunate to enjoy in mine. _

_Protect her growing child and give Christopher the gift of strength_

—he hesitated in his prayer—

_the gift of __**energy**__, Lord, to love and support her in the months and years to come, through married life and motherhood, and—if you see fit to spare him long enough—through menopause. _

_Amen._

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

Hugh Reid. There was a surprise. Once he stood up, he wouldn't shut up. I thought I owed him his moment though. He had so much promise in the few episodes of Foyle's War where he appeared—Michael Simkins made such a good job of him. And then…where did he go? Yet another of Foyle's _confidants_ lost to us.

...

Geraldine, if I were you, I'd change my doctor, Dear. Not a huge choice of quacks in Lyminster though, I imagine. Still, when push comes to shove, there's always Arundel just up the road. Or Littlehampton in the other direction. Get a second opinion

* * *

More soon.

**GiuC**


	16. Chapter 16

**L'Aimant**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

The morning following the wedding, the Foyles and the Stewarts awaken at The Royal Victoria, Hastings.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

This is one of my dual-rating chapters. If you like some extra spice with your ice, **defect NOW** and read the **M**-rated version of this chapter instead. It's published separately under the title "**L'Aimant – Chap 16 (M)**" (but you will need to change your search-filter settings to "**Rated - M**" or "**Rating: All**" first. And don't forget to click "**Go**" after you have changed the rating, or the **M**-rated chapter will not be listed).

If you prefer to stick with this **T**-rated version of the chapter, simply read on.

…

After the death of his wife, Carole Lombard, in 1942, Clark Gable romanced a starlet called Virginia Grey for several years, before re-marrying in 1949. He did not marry Miss Grey.

…

Thanks to my lovely beta _dancesabove_ for vetting and editing the content of this, and for educating me about Foyle's in-canon relationship with _'The Wizard of Oz'_!

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_Needing no further invitation, Iain Stewart bent to loosen his shoelaces and kicked off his shoes. Then he climbed onto the bed next to Geraldine, closed his eyes and lowered his head onto her shoulder, feeling blindly for her hand._

_"No sudden moves," he reassured her, pressing a soft smile into her terry robe._

_"Nothing sudden," she answered, sinking comfortably into slumber. "For an hour or so, at least."_

_"An hour. Or so."_

_Iain yawned, relaxing against his wife. As he often did before drifting off to sleep, he prayed._

Dear Father,

Grant Samantha happiness and peace in her married life, as I have been fortunate to enjoy in mine.

Protect her growing child and give Christopher the gift of strength

_—He hesitated in his prayer—_

the gift of **energy**, Lord, to love and support her in the months and years to come, through married life and motherhood, and—if you see fit to spare him long enough—through menopause.

Amen.

* * *

**Chapter 16**

**Sunday, 17****th**** December 1944**

Samantha Foyle was enjoying a pleasant dream from the luxurious comfort of her hotel bed. She was sitting in the middle of a field of waving wheat, dotted with the bluest cornflowers…

* * *

_A checked tablecloth lay spread between Samantha and her handsome companion. Mr Gable was reclining on one elbow—the dapper image of his suave screen-icon-self: beige linen jacket and spotted maroon cravat; hair pomaded smoothly into shape, a rogue lock falling rakishly across his forehead… _

_Cake-crumbs and cherry-stones—the remnants of a picnic—were strewn across the cloth. Proudly upright in the middle of the whole arrangement stood a large, Champagne-corked bottle labelled "Dandelion Pop". _

_Gable's eyes devoured Samantha. Grinning cheekily, he beckoned her across the tablecloth to join him. "C'mere, Kid. Got a great surprise for ya."_

_Sam turned a small, unruffled smile on her companion. "I'm not at all sure that I __**like **__your surprises, Mr Gable. You're courting Miss Virginia Grey, from what I hear." She tossed her head and arched her back, planting her hands flat on the ground behind her. Her blonde curls tumbled loosely down her back as she lifted her face to catch the sun's rays._

_"Aw, Honey, don't be hard on me," coaxed Gable, reproaching her with 'hurt pup' eyebrows. "Virginia and me?—that's goin' nowhere. And ain't it just a lovely day? We could fool around a little—who's gonna know?"_

_Sam knelt up and reached out for the bottle. "__**Christopher**__ would know, because I'd have to tell him. __**You**__ can have a glass of pop instead," she told him firmly, and began to fiddle with the cork. "You know," she admonished sternly, "it's simply not polite to waltz across the ocean and expect to have your pick. We've got our __**own**__ lives to lead over here."_

_Gable threw back his head and laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks. "Gee, but you're a dippy dame! I love your British accent. And I'm gonna kiss the face right off ya!"_

_"No, you jolly well aren't!" Sam struggled to extract the cork sunk deep into the neck of the bottle. "It's pop for you—or nothing."_

_Gable's grin turned devilish, and he wagged his finger playfully. "I wouldn't pop that cork if I were you, Sister. You'll never get the genie back into the bottle." Slowly he began to crawl on hands and knees across the cloth, ignoring the detritus from the picnic. His expression spelled 'comin' to get ya'._

_Still struggling with the stubborn cork, Sam scolded in her best strict schoolmistress tone: "You're going to get your trousers very messy, Mr Gable." _

_"Uncommonly decent of you to care, but trousers are the least of my concerns." The voice which now dismissed her warning wasn't Gable's. It was calm, and clipped, and smooth as golden syrup. The voice was unmistakeably __**Christopher's**__._

_Sam's new beau took possession of the bottle. "Now, what about my kiss?"_

_She felt her breath catch. "So it's really you?" she whispered breathily. _

_Eyes twinkling, Christopher leant across in silence to collect his prize, his fingers reaching round to dive into her hair. The cork popped. She was swooning from the contact of his lips, and spiralling away to…_

* * *

Wakefulness. Sam's eyelids flickered open. Christopher was lying facing her in their enormous hotel bed. He was still asleep, his face serene, lips slightly parted, covers pulled up round his shoulders. His pyjamas, of sturdy, striped flannel—normally a successful deterrent to intruders—were gaping open at the chest, a leftover from the way they'd finished up the night before.

Sam drank in the sight of her husband with deepening pleasure: ineffably angelic as he slept, the firm line of his lips turning slightly upwards at one end; the satisfying curve of the faint creases leading down from his nose and past the corners of his lips; long eyelashes resting softly on his cheeks. Reason told her she should let him sleep, but her body drove her to disturb him. Her left hand snaked underneath his pyjama jacket, stroking the warm flesh of his flank.

Christopher's eyes peeled open slowly. "Mmm... Samantha?"

"Happy Sunday, Darling Husband," Sam purred, insinuating herself closer.

He blinked at her. "Seem to remember something yesterday along those lines." A yawn escaped him as he stretched his legs beneath the covers. "So we're still married then? At any rate, your left hand seems well kitted-out with rings, and one of them"—he smirked, shifting minutely—"is definitely poking me in the ribs."

Sam withdrew her hand as if she had been burned. Her large engagement ring had somehow worked its way around her finger in the night so that the stone was pointing inwards from her palm. "Oh, Darling—did I hurt you?" she fretted.

"Nope." Christopher grinned mischievously and gathered her hand back to his chest. "But this—he turned the stone to face the proper way and squinted down at it—"could prove to be a fearsome weapon… in the wrong situation."

"I should take it off…" offered Sam apologetically.

"No, leave it on." He kissed her fingers. "Just be careful what you're up to." He yawned again. "What time is it?"

"Um, seven, I think." Sam's tone brightened: "Actually, you can look for yourself—I have a surprise for you!" She sat up, a vision in her ivory satin nightie—though that was not the actual surprise—and turned to fumble for the light. Reaching inside the bedside drawer she drew out a small leather-covered box. "This is for you, my darling." She placed the box in Christopher's hand.

Foyle stroked his thumb along his young wife's wrist. "Sam, you needn't have…" he began.

"Well, you didn't want to wear a wedding ring, and so I thought… this…" Sam's voice trailed off. She was half-nervous that he wouldn't like her present.

Foyle lifted the lid: inside the silk-lined box sat a silver half-hunter pocket watch, engraved with elaborate swirls, and mounted on a double-Albert chain. Even the most cursory inspection revealed the watch to be a splendid timepiece, and it told him, without his having to flip open the outer case, that the time was ten past seven.

Foyle lifted the watch from its box and laid it on the palm of his left hand. "Sweetheart, this is…magnificent. Thank you, Sam." He worked quietly at the inside of his lower lip. "I shall keep it with me always," he told her softly.

"And you'll think of me whenever you check the time," Sam urged, a little over-eagerly, adding, with a tinge of sadness, "no matter who's driving you…" She cast her eyes down.

"Sam—" Christopher squeezed her hand kindly, "I don't _need_ a _pocket watch_ to think of you. You're with me every second." He stroked her fingers with his thumb and drew her body across his, placing his present carefully on the cabinet his own side of the bed.

"This"—he inclined his head towards the watch—"and these"—he fingered the rings on her left hand—"are _things_. Just tokens—nice to have, we like to give them, but they make _no difference_ to what we are to one another. Nothing—no-one—will distract me from that simple fact—or displace you. Ever." He hugged her and pressed his lips into her hair as if to reinforce his words. "Work… is _just _work. Can you even _begin_ to understand the difference you've made to me?"—he struggled for the best way to explain— "You've brought a part of me I'd given up on back to life. You've added… colour."

Sam beamed up at him. "When you say that, it makes me think of _'The Wizard of Oz'_!"

"Hmm?" Foyle stretched his eyes, intrigued at first by the analogy. Then he found himself accepting it. "It may… surprise you to know I've seen that film," he told her. Taking note of Sam's raised eyebrows, he continued, "Don't you remember? When my goddaughter Lydia's son was staying with me, you told me _'Oz'_ was playing at The Ruby, and hinted I should take the boy to see it. So, naturally, I did just that." _When could I ever resist your good sense? _he thought. "Total-nonsense plot, of course, but young James was entranced. It took his mind off things for a short while."

Foyle's mind drifted back to the spring of 1943, sitting in The Ruby with young James's sticky hand clutching his own._ Little did I know, _he thought,_ that eighteen months later, I'd be sitting in the same auditorium with my future wife, and—who knows?—in the next few years, I may even be taking my own child there for (what the devil do they watch these days?) Walt Disney's 'Jumbo', or something equally appalling._

Foyle hauled himself back from his reverie, and spoke into Sam's hair. "That shift from sepia to Technicolor when they land in Oz still strikes me as a clever piece of cinema... And—yes—you've had the same vibrant effect on me."

"All yellow bricks and ruby slippers, am I?" chuckled Sam.

Christopher gave her one of the adoring smiles that always left her hugely pleased to be on the receiving end. "Sam, if my image of you even remotely resembled Dorothy, I would have tied a stout brown label to your ribboned plaits and evacuated you to Lyminster years ago."

"Instead of which…?" she pressed.

"Mmm. Hang on… Ah, now—_here's_ a label." Christopher delved teasingly under her arm. "It says: _'Samantha Stewart—Age: Over 21. Destination: Marriage to a Very Lucky Man."_

Sam bit her lip and looked up at him. "Christopher, you—you aren't… _ashamed_ of me for last night?"

Foyle's brows knitted. "Why in heaven's name would I be 'ashamed'?"

"I was very…" Sam turned into his shoulder and whispered, "_I was very loud._"

Amusement settled on his lips. "Since I put you _in _that situation, I hardly think I'm one to point a finger. Delight, not shame, would be my memory of the occasion."

Samantha sighed contentedly and closed her eyes, reliving the events of the night before…

* * *

_Christopher approached the bed, an ice-bag brandished in each hand._

_"These should go a long way to relieving the soreness," he said. "Just lie back and open up your robe."_

_"And how come __**you're **__the expert?" Sam asked testily. Every bit of her seemed suddenly uncomfortable, and she was out of sorts._

_Her husband raised one eyebrow, waiting for her common sense to triumph over crossness. _

_It took a moment till the penny dropped. "Oh. I see," she offered grudgingly. "You know the drill from… um… from Rosalind's time with Andrew?" _

_Christopher inclined his head. "Though I have to say, cold compresses were all we used. Rosalind didn't choose to spend nine hours solid in an irritating bosom-harness of the kind you've worn today."_

_Confronted with such evidence of Rosalind's inarguable good sense, Samantha's temper rose. "So now I'm __**silly**__ for wanting to look nice for you on our wedding day?" Beneath her animus ran a certain seam of guilt—had she not, after all, complained about the strictures of glamour to her mother earlier? Which made it all the more unfair to play that card against Christopher? If truth be known, she was actually angry at herself, but her husband had obligingly stepped into the role of scapegoat. And, frankly, being placed in competition with the sainted Rosalind was __**not**__ about to make Sam any sweeter._

_Christopher took a breath and dug deep for the diplomacy skills that had eluded him a moment earlier. "No, not in the least silly. Please. Sam. I appreciate the trouble you took to make me proud. Now all I want is to help make you comfortable again. It really is the least that I can do." He stood, eyes wide, his mouth set in a patient line, inviting reason. Calmly, he held the two ice-bags by their necks, and waited to be forgiven for being right._

_"I don't see—" Sam began, her petulance half-hearted now._

_"Sam." His quiet patience chipped away at her annoyance._

_She sighed and folded. "Well, if you really think it might help…"_

_"Convinced it will. No more than half a minute to start with—see how it feels. If it's uncomfortable, we'll use a towel to pad the, um, the area."_

_"All right. I'm ready." Sam drew back her bathrobe and closed her eyes to receive the descending ice-bags. As they landed softly, an initial shiver took her. Opening her eyes a tiny crack, she saw Christopher gazing down at her with an expression of intense concentration. After half a minute, he removed the ice, as they'd agreed._

_"Not too bad," she conceded. "Things feel a little numb." From her position lying on the bed, Sam tucked her chin into her neck and surveyed the results of the exercise. The soreness had already subsided somewhat, due to the numbing cold, but both her nipples had puckered into darkened buds atop the mounds of creamy flesh. She squirmed a little, gauging how she rated the effect._

_"More?" Christopher's eyes were steady on hers._

_"Mmm. Why not?" She reclined again, and settled into position._

_Back came the ice-bags—this time, less of a shiver on contact. Instead Sam was surprised by a sharp report of excitement shooting through her lower body. She bit her lip, avoiding Christopher's eyes, and all too soon the time came for the ice-bags to be lifted once again._

_"Sam? It hurts?" his concerned tone reached her as if from a distance, through the noise of rushing blood inside her ears._

_Sam shook her head, continuing to bite her lip._

_"Again?"_

_She nodded mutely, this time turning to meet his gaze. Christopher saw at once that her eyes had darkened beyond her usual deep brown. He lowered the ice-bags once again, and reached to stroke her cheek. "You're starting to like this, aren't you?"_

_Sam closed her eyes and shivered. On this occasion, it was not the ice. When they opened again, her eyes bore a beseeching look. Christopher calmly removed the ice-bags and returned them to the tray._

_"Better?" he asked._

_Sam nodded. "Better… and worse." She drew his hand to her. It was chilly from the ice. "I so want you to make love to me," she breathed._

_Christopher settled on the bed beside her, pushing the curls back from her temples. "I'm out of the doghouse, then?" He gave her the scolded puppy eyebrows. _

_"Don't…" she pleaded, and instantly he dropped the teasing tone._

_"If it gets to be too much, you'll tell me and I'll stop," he told her tenderly, sliding his hand beneath her upper body, gathering her against him. "You're a lovely armful, Mrs Foyle," he crooned, planting a slow trail of kisses from neck to nipple on her languid form. "How's this feel? Comfortable?" He lingered, teasing at one puckered, darkened areola with his lips._

_"Mmm. Lovely. More please."_

_"The flesh is still quite cold. You feel it, though?" he cocked an inquisitive eyebrow._

_"I do. It's quite intense, but the numbness from the ice has made it quaintly bearable—I don't want you to stop."_

_"Then rest assured, I won't." Christopher's mouth continued its quest, teasing her sensitive flesh._

_With half an eye, he measured Sam's reactions. At the outset, Christopher followed her progress with a certain observational detachment, but as moments passed, such emotional distance became impossible to maintain, for Sam's responsiveness was engaging directly with his own anatomy. He bent to his task with increasing enthusiasm, and Samantha's vocal responses grew much louder as her excitement climbed, and her body, enfolded firmly in his arms, was growing harder to control._

_"Shush, Darling, shush!" he told her softly, but Sam was powerless to stifle the vocal evidence of her enjoyment, building rapidly to helpless whoops of consummation. Throughout it all, he still maintained the stimulation, unable to deny her this (or indeed, any) outlet for her pleasure._

_Inevitably Christopher's own excitement rose beyond control. But with his ministrations rendering his wife totally insensible to any need outside her own, he had to content himself with gentle pressure up against her hip and screwing up his eyes in effort to contain himself. Ultimately he had to give up his struggle to hold back, a low sob of torment signalling his surrender._

_Fearing that Sam's extravagant cries risked drawing unwanted assistance to the room from staff or fellow guests, Christopher moved his mouth back up and over hers, stemming the sounds of unrestrained delight escaping there._

_Neither one of them could have left the hotel room that night to save their lives. Both were in a state of some exhaustion from the pressures of the day, to say nothing of their passionate encounter. Samantha, well aware of the clamour she had made, thought she'd rather die than risk being spotted emerging from their room by neighbours. Therefore, Christopher's next call to room service was not for more ice, but to order them an evening meal, to be delivered to their room._

_They fed each other quietly on the bed, embracing between mouthfuls, then changed into their night things, and fell into an early stupor around nine. _

* * *

Back from the heady memories of their wedding night, Samantha's early-morning drowsiness reclaimed her. Cradled as she was in Christopher's strong and steady arms, it was easy for her to drift off into a blissful doze.

Foyle was content to let his young wife sleep for now, and cast her an indulgent look, loving the soft outlines of her features pressed against his chest. He had requested an alarm call for half-past eight, reasoning that this would give them time enough to bathe and dress before meeting Sam's parents for breakfast in the hotel restaurant at ten o'clock.

Now, however, he found himself totally alert and with an hour to spare before their wake-up call. He reached—carefully, so as not to disturb Samantha—to the cabinet at his side to retrieve the watch that was her wedding present to him.

It was of recent manufacture, though possibly second-hand—a J W Benson, bearing the mark _London 1937_—solid silver, as he detected from the hallmark, with a winder on the stem above the dial. With the cover open, the large white enamel dial bore clear black Arabic numerals, split minutes around the edge, and black diamond markings at the quarter-hour intervals. It was a very attractive watch, but also a clear and easy one to read. The Arabic numerals were repeated as engraved figures on the outer case, picked out in blue enamel, and the hands of the watch were clearly visible through the small glass panel in the centre of the cover. In this way, he would be able to tell the time without opening the lid. _Samantha, Sweetheart—ever practical, to think of such things, _reflected Foyle, and stroked his wife's hair as she dozed against his body.

He fiddled with the cover. In the normal way of things, the case would only open to forty-five degrees. A full ninety-degree opening required depression of the winding stem. Having mastered this idiosyncrasy, Foyle was able to examine the inside of the case-cover, and saw that Sam had had the watch engraved. The words he read there made his eyes mist over:

_My darling Christopher, _

_You make the hours seem short. _

_Your own Samantha._

* * *

On another floor of The Royal Victoria Hotel, Iain Stewart woke from a restful slumber to the slow realisation that this was an out-of-the-ordinary Sunday. Awakening in a strange bed, in a strange hotel, in a strange town, all conspired to disorientate him. To this extent, it took several minutes for him to realise that Geraldine was not, in fact, lying beside him in the bed.

He cast bewildered glances round the room, finally noticing that the door to the bathroom was ajar, and the light was on. For a little while, he thought no more about it, turning on his side in expectation that Geraldine would shortly return. However, after what he estimated to be ten minutes or so, no movement from the bathroom was forthcoming. In fact, he fancied he could hear a weak groan or two emanating from behind the bathroom door.

Regaining some level of alertness, he switched on the bedside lamp and reached for his dressing gown. "Geraldine, my dear, is everything all right?" he called tentatively, reasoning he should not disturb her too much if she were genuinely 'engaged'.

"Oh, God, I want to diiiiie!" It was a groan that chilled right through to Iain's liver. Cautiously, he crossed the room and pushed open the bathroom door. Geraldine was on her knees in front of the lavatory, pale as a ghost, hair hanging over one side of her face, and beads of sweat gleaming on her brow. She shot Iain a pitiful glance before resuming her original position, head inclined over the pan, hands gripping the rim.

Iain was appalled. He stepped inside and knelt beside her, pushing her dishevelled hair out of her eyes and drawing it back to grasp it at the nape of her neck. "My dear, how long have you been ill like this? What on earth is wrong? We ate the same things yesterday, both at luncheon and at dinner…"

Geraldine was too busy focussing on the water in the bottom of the pan to answer questions. For the eighth time in the last half hour, the bile rose in her throat, sending her stomach heaving into spasm. Clear liquid issued from her mouth, and it was several minutes till she sank back onto her haunches, panting to recover from the trauma.

"Iain," she managed between breaths, "ring room service… and ask them… if they could possibly… find me some ginger from the kitchen."

"Ginger, my love? Whatever for?"

"Please, just do as I ask. I think it might help. Before you go, just… pass me a glass of water, would you?"

Iain filled a beaker from the tap and handed it mechanically to Geraldine, then he wandered from the bathroom to pick up the phone. He felt peculiarly detached from proceedings, as if operating in a dream.

"Hello. Eh-heh!" Iain's voice was terribly apologetic. "A strange request, perhaps, at this young hour, but could you possibly send up some… er… some _ginger?_ From the kitchen. Hmm. That's correct. So kind. Thank you."

When he returned to the bathroom, Geraldine was sitting on the floor beside the lavatory, leaning against the bath and sipping her water quietly. Iain sank down next to her and put an arm around her shoulders.

"Feeling any calmer, my love? In the stomach department, I mean to say."

"A little better, now. Perhaps the worst is over for a while." Geraldine's expression was inscrutable, but as soon as she felt her husband's gaze wander from her face, she shot him a sideways glance, weighing up what, if anything, to say next. Eventually her eyes flew up to the ceiling as if seeking divine inspiration. Five more minutes passed in heavy silence, until a knock came at the door.

Iain rose to answer it. "That will be your, er, ginger, I suppose, Dear."

He found a rosy-faced middle-aged woman in black uniform, white frilly apron and frilly cap standing in the corridor, bearing a nicely laid tray with a small bowl of powdered ginger, some cubed sugar, a carafe of iced water and a glass.

"Good morning, Sir!" she greeted him pleasantly. "Here's madam's ginger, as requested."

Iain blinked at her and reached to take the tray, puzzled, as he was fairly sure he had not mentioned that the ginger was for his wife. "Thank you so much," he said. "I'm surprised you were able to find this for us so quickly. Such an unusual request at this hour, after all!" He managed a small, apologetic laugh.

"Oooh, not at all, Sir! You'd be surprised. We get it all the time at this hour—Ladies waking up and suffering from morning sickness. Always got some ginger at the ready! Good morning to you, Sir. I hope your wife feels better soon." Without further ado, she bobbed a semi-curtsey and was off down the corridor, leaving Iain, jaw hanging loose, staring across the corridor into space that seemed to stretch into oblivion.

Geraldine, having finally clawed her way back to an upright position, was just emerging from the bathroom as Iain dropped the tray.

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

So where exactly did Geraldine's doctor get his training? _Menopause?_ Pah! He couldn't spot a pregnant woman when he saw one? Tut. Honestly. But they do say, don't they, fifty percent of doctors graduate in the bottom half of their class ;0) Besides which, all's fair in love, war and fiction… so I'm probably maligning the poor chap.

…

Dreams are fascinating bits of nonsense. Sigmund Freud strenuously denied that he had ever advocated the analysis of symbols in dreams to have a sexual significance. Well, I dunno. But I do know what was going on in my own head when I wrote Sam's dream at the beginning of this chapter. The whirring sound you hear will be old Freud revolving in his grave.

…

Wedding rings were seldom worn by men before the 20th century. They took off in popularity with the advent of the First World War, when newly married soldiers were encouraged by their wives to wear a visible reminder of the waiting wife back home. This new practice took root and carried on into the Second World War, again particularly amongst serving soldiers. Foyle, however, did not fall into this category, and being "old school," would likely have declined to wear a wedding ring.

…

Samantha's message to Christopher, engraved inside his watch, was nicked, in some measure, from The Bard:

_Pleasure and action make the hours seem short_

_OTHELLO, Act II, sc. 3_

* * *

More soon.

**GiuC**


	17. Chapter 17

**L'Aimant - Chapter 17**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

_Chapter 17:_ Sam and Foyle settle back into 31 Steep Lane the day after the wedding. Some fretting over parents, followed by a lovely surprise for Sam—and then an unwelcome one.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Arthur Whitehall, novelist, 'tortured soul', and long-standing friend of Christopher Foyle, belongs to _dancesabove_. He appears in her story _The Crash._

Thanks also to _dances_ for betaing this chapter with her usual impeccable care.

…

Noël Coward was born in 1899, and Bing Crosby in 1903. Though there was little age-difference between these two competing talents, they were poles apart in almost every other way.

Coward owned a house in London as well as one in Port Maria, Jamaica, but during the war, he was resident at The Savoy Hotel, after being bombed out of his London home.

…

Wendy Hiller was a serenely beautiful (in my view), versatile British stage actress, already famous by the 1940s, for film roles such as Eliza Doolittle in _Pygmalion_, and the title role in _Major Barbara._

Known for her no-nonsense on-screen presence, her most famous film was arguably _I Know Where I'm Going_, released in 1945, which tells of an independent-minded, headstrong young woman who travels to Scotland to marry an older, wealthy industrialist—and falls for a laird instead. Although the timeline of my story predates this particular film, Wendy Hiller was already well-known for projecting just such a personality in her screen roles.

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_Five more minutes passed in heavy silence, until a knock came at the door._

_Iain rose to answer it. "That will be your, er, ginger, I suppose, Dear."_

_He found a rosy-faced middle-aged woman in black uniform, white frilly apron and frilly cap standing in the corridor, bearing a nicely laid tray with a small bowl of powdered ginger, some cubed sugar, a carafe of iced water and a glass._

_"Good morning, Sir!" she greeted him pleasantly. "Here's madam's ginger, as requested."_

_Iain blinked at her and reached to take the tray, puzzled, as he was fairly sure he had not mentioned that the ginger was for his wife. "Thank you so much," he said. "I'm surprised you were able to find this for us so quickly. Such an unusual request at this hour, after all!" He managed a small, apologetic laugh._

_"Oooh, not at all, Sir! You'd be surprised. We get it all the time at this hour—Ladies waking up and suffering from morning sickness. Always got some ginger at the ready! Good morning to you, Sir. I hope your wife feels better soon." Without further ado, she bobbed a semi-curtsey and was off down the corridor, leaving Iain, jaw hanging loose, staring across the corridor into space that seemed to stretch into oblivion._

_Geraldine, having finally clawed her way back to an upright position, was just emerging from the bathroom as Iain dropped the tray._

* * *

**Chapter 17**

**Sunday Evening, 17th December 1944**

Sam surveyed the living room of 31 Steep Lane in its new light as her marital home. "What a nice, cosy house." She patted the settee contentedly. "Why didn't we just come straight here last night?"

"You deserved some luxury on your wedding night. Plus," Christopher reminded her, "the hotel bed appeared to please you well enough—frankly, it was a fair old struggle to turf you out of it."

Indeed, it had been difficult for Sam to rise and shine that morning. Dozing lazily in Christopher's arms had been a lovely interlude, until the telephone rang to wake them properly...

* * *

_"Up you get then, Mrs Foyle." Christopher's voice hummed in her ear, murmuring gentle encouragement to face the day._

_"Meuuuh. Leave me alone, I'm comfortable." Sam turned into his chest from her nest inside his arms and tried to snuggle into him._

_"Your parents are expecting us downstairs at ten," he coaxed, tucking in his chin to get a proper view of her._

_"That's hours yet. Hours and hours." Her arms slid under his pyjama jacket._

_Christopher was having none of it. "Oh no, you don't." He swivelled on the mattress, dropping his legs to the floor, and rose resolutely, lifting Samantha with him. "It's half-past eight. Time for the bride to have her bath."_

_Sam's arms found their way around his neck. "Groom too, then," she wheedled, twisting the grey-flecked chestnut curls at his nape. "We could run a nice deep one and share…" The anticipated pleasure of watching him shave afterwards sent her mind rushing ahead to Christopher, dressed in his crisp shirt and Sunday best, her fingers running over his smooth jawline._

_"Behave," he said._

_"Or what?"_

_"Mmmight let you pick your own punishment."_

* * *

Sam nibbled at her little fingernail as she ran through the events of Sunday morning in her mind. "Christopher, do you think my parents seemed unhappy over breakfast? Mummy hardly touched a thing—that's the second morning running. And Daddy looked quite drawn and anxious."

"Didn't sleep well in a strange bed, perhaps? And it's a busy time for Iain, with Christmas coming up." Christopher had actually felt the same uneasy atmosphere as Sam—Iain's behaviour in particular had been in direct contrast to their easy-going evening the night before the wedding—but he hadn't thought it was his place to pry. Privately he was of the opinion that Sam's parents had argued before breakfast.

"But Daddy didn't even stop to bend the vicar's ear as we came out of morning worship. Sunday services elsewhere are normally such a pleasure for him—he's been known to spend at least half an hour discussing the sermon with the minister. And what with Christ Church having suffered in the raids, you'd think they would have had an awful lot to talk about—not to mention St Leonard's and St John the Evangelist being bombed out of action over the past year. I just think it's strange. He looked to be in a daze."

"If you're worried, telephone them now. They should have arrived back in Lyminster hours ago."

"You know, I think I will…"

Sam was no less worried when she returned several minutes later. She stood in front of the fire, fiddling with a candlestick on the mantelpiece. "Uncle Aubrey answered. Mummy was resting upstairs, so I said not to disturb her; but apparently," Sam sent Christopher an uneasy look over her shoulder, "Daddy's beetled off to church all on his own. It's nine o'clock. And after _such_ a long day… Christopher, why would he feel he had to go?"

Foyle strove to reassure her. "Sam, how often does your father leave his church in someone else's charge on a Sunday, hmm?"

"Not _terribly_ often, admittedly."

"Well, this morning—picture this—he sat through a service in a bomb-damaged church, in a town where many of the churches have been bombed to oblivion in the raids. Now, don't you think, in those circumstances, he'd want to check that everything's intact in Lyminster?"

Sam was relieved to latch on to the idea. "We _were_ all crammed inside the Lady Chapel, weren't we? What with the rest of Christ Church cordoned off. So… you think he was just going over to church to stroke his building?"

"Precisely. Try not to worry, Sweetheart," Foyle told her kindly. "We'll be with them for Christmas next weekend, after all."

"I know. It's just that… everything seems so _perfect_ just now, I suppose I'm inventing things to fret about because I can hardly believe how lucky I am." She smiled again over her shoulder at her husband.

Christopher approached her from behind. "I can hardly believe _my _luck." He wrapped his arms around Sam's middle and rested his chin on her shoulder. "An instant family, acquired in just six weeks. And so conveniently packaged."

Sam pouted. "If I took you even remotely seriously, you'd be in trouble for that remark." Her tone was almost stern, but Foyle could see through the mirror over the fireplace that her lips were turned up in a smile.

"Speaking of packages, there's one here for you." Foyle moved back to the side of the settee and bent down, pulling out a heavy box, a little over twelve inches square and ten inches deep. This had been the second package delivered to Steep Lane the morning of the wedding—obligingly dealt with by Iain while Foyle was dressing.

"Here. Quite heavy; mustn't drop it." Foyle thought better then of handing it to Sam. "Actually, let me put it on the table for you."

He deposited the package and stood back, arms folded, shooting his wife a mischievous glance out of the corner of his eye. "What can it be, I wonder?"

Sam approached the table and set about undoing parcel tape and string. Once the top of the box was open, she delved inside, removing corrugated paper packaging and cardboard stiffening. Her face broke into a beam. "Christopher, is this… are these gramophone records?"

Foyle peered innocently into the box. "Looks like it, doesn't it? Yup."

Sam dug deeper and found her way down to the first record. "It's Bing!"—and then to the second, and third— "More Bing! And even more!"

Foyle might have been affecting nonchalance, but a flush of pleasure at Sam's delighted reaction crept into his cheeks and betrayed him. "Well, y'know," he shrugged, "one needs a change from Chopin and _'The Holy City_'. Otherwise one's music collection might be disparaged as—um—'stuffed shirt'. By _some _individuals." The corner of his mouth twitched at the memory of Sam's dismissal of his tastes.

"Oh, I _say! Rath-er!_" Sam was too engrossed in unpacking her parcel to register the full force of the jibe.

Foyle leant forwards, hands in pockets, and parked his lips next to Samantha's ear. "Bo-bo-bo-boh!" he offered playfully—and utterly tunelessly.

Disappointingly, his little Bing-icism was lost on Sam, so focussed was she on inspecting the records. "Honestly! But this is _more_ Bing than I've _ever_ seen in one place! How did you manage to get hold of so many?"

_Aha!_ Finally Foyle had her attention, and he prepared to exploit it to full advantage. "I, um, have a novelist friend—Arthur Whitehall—with connections in the music business. He knows, ah, Noël Coward." He rocked a little on his heels, satisfied that he'd impressed her now.

Sam's jaw dropped. "Arthur Whitehall? Author of _Kind Words_?" She had read the book and found it wonderfully sensitive. This man knew Christopher? "… And a friend of Noël Coward's, too? Gosh! What a stroke of luck!"

"Mmm. Yes." He revelled quietly in Sam's amazement. "In fact, you _might_ just find a note inside there, somewhere…" He lifted his chin towards the box in anticipation.

Sam took the cue. Her tongue poked up over her lip as she fished down the side of the packaging, feeling for a letter. "Here! Here it is!" Triumphantly, she withdrew a white envelope and handed it to Christopher. The envelope was quality, heavy bond stationery and bore, in one corner, an embossed black circular logo comprising a capital "S" cross-printed with a lower-case "h" in red and white art-deco letters. The envelope was addressed, clearly in haste, and in a cursive hand, quite simply:

_Christopher_

Foyle slit open the envelope and perused the letter. Grinning, he handed it back to Sam. Samantha seized it with both hands, poring over it eagerly.

_Savoy Hotel  
Strand_  
_London_

_Monday, 11th December, 1944_

_Dear Christopher (if I may),_

_I am on hiatus from my recent tour of Asia and am in receipt of dear Arthur's urgent note on your behalf._

_It is my pleasure to enclose a selection of gramophone records from my personal collection of this young man's music. To part with them is little sacrifice, as they are either duplicates of ones already stored in Port Maria, or else easily obtained from a dear young friend at Decca. In recognition of your need for these in haste, I am sending you my own copies._

_I have taken the precaution of autographing every sleeve, lest your charming bride forget, in her enjoyment of this banquet of mellifluous crooning, the devastating wit and talent of her benefactor, who is,_

_Sincerely yours (and hers),_

_Noël Coward_

"He's very conceited, isn't he?" remarked Samantha, blinking. "But very kind."

"Totally agree. And of course, he's barely older than _the young man, _Bing."

"He's certainly signed them too." Samantha pointed to the buff-coloured paper sleeve of the first record, which bore the inscription:

_A little light American fluff for the fair Mrs Foyle,_

_Ex discis_

_Noël Coward_

"_Ex discis?_ That would be?" Sam wrinkled her nose.

"'From the record library of…'" supplied Foyle. "Like _ex libris_."

"How does he know I'm _fair_?"

"I imagine that's because I told Arthur he should try to imagine you as a Wendy Hiller type, except with long blonde curls."

Sam blushed. "You think I look like Wendy Hiller?"

"Look like; think like; behave like. And easily outshine. Now pick a record and we'll wear a hole in this old carpet."

Moments later, Sam was laughing in Christopher's arms, dancing animatedly to the instrumental section of _'The Very Thought of You'_.

"This is an _old_ one," giggled Sam. "I was still at school when it came out."

"_I'm_ an old one," Christopher replied in mock offense. "It suits me very well."

"You said you didn't _like _Bing," frowned Samantha.

"I said I had no use for his seductive songs. Which was perfectly true—until now." Foyle pivoted deftly on his toes and bent at the waist, draping Sam backwards over his knee. She squealed delightedly at the sudden loss of control, until he set her back on her feet.

"What's next in the pile?" he spun Sam towards the table-top.

Samantha craned her neck over the stack of records, Christopher still trailing from her fingers. "Um. _'Moonlight Becomes You',_" she announced.

"That'll do nicely. Wholly endorse the sentiments in that one. Just don't expect me to sing along."

Sam reclaimed her hand and set the record carefully down on the turntable, lowering the needle. Christopher pulled her back against his chest, gently situating his cheek against hers. "This is a slow one, if I remember. Kinder on the carpet."

"_I _suspect you know more Bing than you've been letting on," accused Samantha.

"I keep my ears open. And let's just say, I'm starting to appreciate his slant on things. You tell me he—um—fishes?"

"According to _Britannia & Eve, _he does."

"Good man."

* * *

**Monday, 18th December 1944**

Sam hunted round the bedroom, fruitlessly, then called out: "Christopher, have you seen my dressing gown? I thought I left it in Andrew's room with my other things, but it's not there…"

"Wear mine. We'll find it later." Christopher's voice reached her from the bathroom.

"All right, Darling. Thank you." Samantha wrapped the warming garment round her and did up the tasselled cord that served as a belt.

She made her way downstairs to sort out a leisurely breakfast, since they had both taken a day's leave from work and would not be going in to the station until tomorrow.

As usual, it was chilly downstairs, and Sam made a detour into the living room to stoke the fire, plunging her hands into the woollen pockets against the cold. In doing so, her fingers slid around some folded sheets of paper and what was obviously an envelope. Out of curiosity, she pulled out the pages and examined them.

The envelope was addressed to Christopher. _In Andrew's handwriting!_ Sam was taken aback. Christopher had made no mention of the letter, and she could tell from the postmark that it had been posted within the last week.

Heat crept around the back of her ears in an uneasy premonition. She pushed the envelope back into her pocket and glanced down at the writing on the top sheet. A few words and phrases sprang out at her, in no particular order: _"delusional", "dotage", "nursemaid", "impressionable", "ashamed", "advantage", "your own age", "more sense"…_

Sam's face caught fire. She took a hitching breath and made for the settee, where she sat down hard, staring at the letter, which, by now, was out of focus from the tears of anger welling in her eyes.

_How very __**dare**__ he!_ Samantha raised a hand to wipe her eyes, now staring furiously at the sheets of paper in her hand, her lips pouting in a _moue_ which would have spelt fearsome retribution for the writer of the letter, had he been within reach. She turned the sheaf of pages over to read the valediction.

_"… in view of which, it's something of a blessing that I shan't be at the wedding to see you make a perfect ass of yourself._

_Andrew_"

The sound of feet pounding downstairs broke through her fury, and she glanced up to find Christopher, wide-eyed with alarm, standing in the doorway of the living room.

"Sam—I…" His stopped then, taking in the scene—his worst suspicion confirmed. Shaving in the bathroom, he had remembered too late Andrew's letter, hastily shoved into his dressing gown pocket the morning of the wedding.

"You kept _this_ from me? _This?!_" Sam raised tearful eyes to meet his own.

Christopher tucked his lips between his teeth and grimaced, staring up at the ceiling. He squeezed his eyes shut, then tentatively opened one to look at her again. "I—um—wouldn't have had you read that for the world. I'm _so_, so sorry Sam."

"Well actually, I haven't read it all," she sniffed, "but I've jolly well seen enough to know what it's saying."

"I don't want you to read it all, then. Give me the letter." Christopher held out his hand.

"NO. I'm going to read every word." Sam folded the letter and stubbornly held onto it with both hands.

"Sam, it's not addressed to you…" Foyle tried hesitantly, but he didn't move from the spot.

"O-HO! _Don't_ give me _that_." The fire in her eyes warned him not to push things.

"As you wish." Foyle turned quietly and set about encouraging the fire to life. "We need some heat in here. You'll freeze."

A few short minutes later, he heard another hefty sniff from Sam. "Well. That's that, then! Andrew needs to learn his manners, and I'll be glad to teach them to him."

Foyle turned to face her from his position squatting in front of the hearth. "I still wish you hadn't read it and upset yourself. _I_ can deal with Andrew."

"You think I'm angry for _myself?_ If he imagines he can hurt you in this way and get away with it, he's got another think coming. Who does he think he _is_?"

"Well, um, he thinks he's my _son_. And, by extension, in the way of these things, my—um—judge? Also, in some measure he imagines he's being your… protector."

Sam spat the words: "Then he's deranged, if he believes I need protecting from you. Too many hours at high altitude have addled his brain."

"Sam… don't. He risks his life… It's just… he doesn't understand… _us._ Yet." Christopher's eyes pleaded with her.

Sam heard and felt the pain behind the words. She took a deep breath and shook her head in angry disbelief. "I can't _bear_ that he's trying to punish you for this. I shall write him _such_ a letter, it will melt his eyeballs…"

"No, you _won't, _Samantha," Foyle said softly. "_I _shall deal with it. Please give me the letter now." From his stooped position, he held out his hand, and fixed Samantha with his piercing blue eyes. They said: _Don't cross me in this._

Sam blinked slowly and let out her breath, hearing a faint whistling sound in her ears as the temper left her. Mutely, she handed over the folded sheets of paper, glancing with furrowed brow to one side, upset.

Foyle tilted his head, acknowledging the concession. "Thank you," he said quietly. Then he added, "And thank you for being _my_ protector."

Still balanced on his toes, Foyle swivelled round and tossed the letter on the fire.

"Breakfast now, I think."

"Not really hungry, now." Her tone was hurt.

"You'll eat. I'll eat. Life goes on." He moved to sit beside her on the settee. "Sam, cheer up. _We_ know what we are. This won't be the first time I've had to teach Andrew a life-lesson…" he sighed. "And it probably won't be the last."

Sam fidgeted. "He doesn't even know that I'm expecting. What on earth's he going to make of _that_?"

Foyle was suddenly indignant. "It's absolutely none of his bloody business. I don't pry into _his_ intimate affairs. If he's any good at arithmetic, he can have a second pop at me when the baby's born. I'll even fetch a soap box for him to stand on while he's doing it."

Sam sniggered in spite of herself.

"Sam, he's my son. I wiped his bottom when he was small, for God's sake. I'm not about to let him tell me how to lead my life. Rest easy, now. Let _me_ worry about Andrew."

Sam looked hopeful. "_You_ wiped his bottom? Didn't Rosalind do that?"

Foyle squirmed a little. "Well, um. I wiped it a few times. If we were out. At the, um, Gents'…"

Sam raised her eyes to heaven.

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

_**The Very Thought of You **_  
Music and lyrics by Ray Noble. Bing recorded this in 1934.

_The very thought of you and I forget to do _  
_The little ordinary things that everyone ought to do _  
_I'm living in a kind of daydream _  
_I'm happy as a king _  
_And foolish though it may seem _  
_To me that's everything_

_The mere idea of you, the longing here for you _  
_You'll never know how slow the moments go till I'm near to you _  
_I see your face in every flower _  
_Your eyes in stars above _  
_It's just the thought of you _  
_The very thought of you, my love_

_**Moonlight becomes you**_  
Music by Jimmy Van Heusen, lyrics by Johnny Burke. Bing sang this in _The Road to Morocco_ in 1942

_Moonlight becomes you, it goes with your hair_  
_You certainly know the right thing to wear_  
_Moonlight becomes you, I'm thrilled at the sight_  
_And I could get so romantic tonight_

_You're all dressed up to go dreaming_  
_Now don't tell me I'm wrong_  
_And what a night to go dreaming_  
_Mind if I tag along?_

_If I say I love you_  
_I want you to know_  
_It's not just because there's moonlight_  
_Although, moonlight becomes you so_

**You'll find both on YouTube—no trouble.**

* * *

More soon.

**GiuC**


	18. Chapter 18

**L'Aimant – Chapter 18**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

_Chapter 18: _First day back at work for Sam and Foyle after the wedding.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Readers of this serial may also enjoy a companion story I have written, starring Merivale and Aubrey. It is called _"Wine and Roses" _and is set in June 1945, six months after this episode of _L'Aimant—_ but it won't interfere with your reading experience of this serial. I shall be posting it shortly, so please sign up for a writer alert using your Follow/Favorite button, or else keep your eyes peeled for it in the Foyle's war listings.

…

Richard Beardsley belongs to _Kailin_. He appears in two episodes of her excellent Foyle's War story cycle which begins with _"Last Man Standing" _(look for him in _"A Glimmer of Hope" _and_ "At the End"_)_._ My story runs in an alternative universe, but Beardsley's still up to his nasty tricks.

…

_dancesabove _and I had a little discussion about the availability of Quaker Oats in Britain during WWII. As it turns out, there were manufacturing plants at Ware, Hertfordshire, and at Rotherhithe, both established after WWI, so we reckoned we were on safe ground.

Thanks as ever to _dances _for her clever beta-work.

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_Sam heard and felt the pain behind the words. She took a deep breath and shook her head in angry disbelief. "I can't __**bear**__ that he's trying to punish you for this. I shall write him such a letter, it will melt his eyeballs…"_

_"No, you __**won't**__, Samantha," Foyle said softly. "__**I**__ shall deal with it. Please give me the letter now." From his stooped position, he held out his hand, and fixed Samantha with his piercing blue eyes. They said: __**Don't cross me in this**__._

_Sam blinked slowly and let out her breath, hearing a faint whistling sound in her ears as the temper left her. Mutely, she handed over the folded sheets of paper, glancing with furrowed brow to one side, upset._

_Foyle tilted his head, acknowledging the concession. "Thank you," he said quietly. Then he added, "And thank you for being __**my**__ protector." _

_Still balanced on his toes, Foyle swivelled round and tossed the letter on the fire. _

_"Breakfast now, I think."_

_"Not really hungry now." Her tone was hurt._

_"You'll eat. I'll eat. Life goes on." He moved to sit beside her on the settee. "Sam, cheer up. __**We**__ know what we are. This won't be the first time I've had to teach Andrew a life-lesson…" he sighed. "And it probably won't be the last."_

_Sam fidgeted. "He doesn't even know that I'm expecting. What on earth's he going to make of __**that**__?"_

_Foyle was suddenly indignant. "It's absolutely none of his bloody business. I don't pry into his intimate affairs. If he's any good at arithmetic, he can have a second pop at me when the baby's born. I'll even fetch a soap box for him to stand on while he's doing it."_

_Sam sniggered in spite of herself._

_"Sam, he's my son. I wiped his bottom when he was small, for God's sake. I'm not about to let him tell me how to lead my life. Rest easy, now. Let __**me **__worry about Andrew."_

_Sam looked hopeful. "You wiped his bottom? Didn't Rosalind do that?"_

_Foyle squirmed a little. "Well, um. I wiped it a few times. If we were out. At the, um, Gents'…"_

_Sam raised her eyes to heaven._

* * *

**Chapter 18**

**Tuesday morning, 19****th**** December 1944**

"Must admit, hadn't considered all the practical details of work arrangements," declared Foyle as they sat over their porridge. "Can't have you cycling to the station every day just to bring the car back here again. No sense in it. Can't put you in a taxi every morning, either. Defeats the object, slightly."

"It's my job. I don't mind cycling. And it's never been a problem before." Sam prickled at the prospect that, two days into wedlock, her role might be under threat from so-called 'practical details' and so-called 'sense'.

Foyle wasn't really listening. There was a problem; he was resolving it in his head; all the rest was background chatter. It was a skill he had developed over the Samantha years, and he still used it judiciously, on occasion. "Nup. Can't have it. Things have got to change."

"Then how…?" Sam felt her colour rise. She stared emotionally into her Quaker Oats, her brows knitting angrily in readiness to do battle.

"We'll just have to keep the Wolseley parked up here most nights; and refuel it on a daily basis, so the petrol can't be siphoned by our honest neighbours overnight." Foyle looked up at Sam and smiled in satisfaction. _Problem solved._

Sam saw that she'd been hasty to condemn, and heaved a sigh of relief—tinged with just a little annoyance—as she realised that Christopher hadn't been paying attention to her, anyway. _Oh, well,_ she thought, _no point in bickering today,_ and chipped in brightly, "Right-oh. I can remove the distributor cap at night, like I always do when the Wolseley isn't locked up in the yard!"

"Yup. That's settled then. But telephone Brooke now." Foyle resumed his breakfast, mumbling oatily, "He can bring the car up, just this once."

Sam considered that instruction for a moment. Seeing Brooke behind the wheel of 'her' car had been tolerable enough on her wedding day, but she didn't want the sergeant getting too comfortable there.

"No. I want to cycle," Sam insisted airily. "Call it my parting shot!" She pushed her chair back from the kitchen table. "See you in half an hour!" she chirped, and pecked him on the cheek. "Mmm. Delicious! You smell of shaving soap." Then she nibbled his ear and amended: "Oops, sorry! _You smell of shaving soap, __**Sir**_**.**" At that, she bounded into the hall to get her coat.

Foyle pursed his lips and tried to turn his attention back to his porridge, without much success. "Hope you realise that once we're on duty, my earlobes are off-limits," he called after her.

"See you in half an hour!" Sam's cheery voice repeated as it faded down the hallway.

"Mind how you go," he called. "It's barely light." He heard the front door close behind her.

_Damned if I know what I'm going to do with her when she has to give up work, _he brooded.

* * *

Cycling down Steep Lane in her greatcoat, cap and gloves was a bracing way to start the day, but Sam was used to early mornings. Her uniform cap did nothing to protect her ears, and she could feel the numbing effect the winter air was having on her extremities. Though her knees were not normally exposed when she wore her coat, the action of pedalling downhill sent a fierce draught up her skirt. _It's easier cycling from my digs, _she mused, _not that I haven't done this route before on "earlies"_. And indeed she had—several times in the last month had seen her creeping out of Steep Lane in the dark of early morning. Undoubtedly, though, this time the weather was colder, and she shivered to feel the difference. The layout of the Hastings roads meant she was obliged to cycle downhill, then back up again a little way, and then across and round. It was something of a circuitous route, and arduous to boot, but her leg-muscles were wholly equal to the task after years of practice cycling around the town and environs.

Finally, Hastings Constabulary hove into view, and Sam was on the home stretch. She grinned to herself, enjoying the thought that today, for the first time ever in a work situation, Brookie would address her as 'Mrs Foyle' when she walked into the station. She was still imagining that satisfying scenario when a fearful caterwauling started up in an adjacent alleyway, and a ball of fur flashed across the road in front of her, followed by another similar shape in hot pursuit. Sam swerved to avoid first one and then the second cat, but in doing so she lost control of the bike and toppled sideways hard onto the pavement, landing on her left hip with a resounding thud that rattled all the way up to her jaw. Her left hand reached out desperately to break her fall as best she could, but Samantha finished in a heap, with one leg in the gutter and the other at an awkward angle over the metal frame of the bicycle.

"Oh, bother! Drat!" she exclaimed, more discomfited than stunned. For a start, her left stocking was laddered, and the inside of her right leg was a mess of oil from the cycle-chain, which had detached itself and hung loose from the chain ring. Her left hand was uninjured, thanks to its heavy leather driving-gauntlet, but her wrist was badly jarred. She sat up and shook it experimentally. It hurt, but not enough to signal breakage. Looking down, she saw that the outside of her left leg was grazed and bleeding from the knee down.

"Golly, what a _wretched_ awful mess I've made of myself," Sam said out loud to no one in particular—at this hour there was no one much around to hear her fulminate in any case. So she pushed herself from underneath the bike and surveyed the damage. Chain detached. Otherwise, nothing too serious. Handlebars slightly askew. Basket still attached. _Oh, well_, she thought,_ I'll ask Brookie if he'll mend the chain for me while I clean myself up_. She bit her lip in mourning for her good silk stocking, but cheered up at the thought that the oil would probably wash out of the other one. _You goose, _she chided herself, _why did you have to go and wear your posh ones on your first day back?_

_You know why,_ came the answer. _V-A-N-I-T-Y._

Turning carefully onto her knees, so as not to ladder the other stocking, Sam braced herself and climbed to her feet. In spite of her best efforts, she winced as she straightened up, and her hand flew to the small of her back, dropping then to her left buttock and round to her hip bone. "Tssss!" a sharp intake of breath signalled that she'd found the precise point of impact. She bent down again to haul the bike back up onto its wheels, and another pain caught her in the lower back, this time creeping round her belly. Gingerly, she straightened up again and limped the remaining 50 yards or so to the station, wheeling the bike alongside. She leant the cycle against the wall at the foot of the constabulary steps.

"Brookie, look at the state of me! I came off my bike just down the road." Sam was still brushing at the dirt on her skirt as she hobbled into the station.

Sergeant Brooke leant over the desk to look at her grazed leg, then hurried round to inspect the damage at close quarters. "Ouch! Looks like you've come a proper cropper there, Miss Stew—_Mrs_ _Foyle_." In spite of Sam's sore circumstances, they both looked at one another and grinned. "I'll get the First Aid box," offered Brooke, eager to be helpful. "If you'd care to make your way to the washroom, I'll bring it down." He hesitated, bending down to peer more closely at her leg. "Don't look _too_ bad though, does it?" he ventured. "'Part from your stocking. Cryin' shame 'bout that."

"No, you're right. I'll live!" Sam called cheerily as she limped along the corridor. "Somehow I'd hoped for a more graceful entrance on my first day back."

"Takes more than one tumble to keep a good woman down!" quipped Brookie in her wake. Then he realised the _other_ sense of what he'd just said, and felt the heat rise round the back of his ears: _Bleedin' Ada! When are you going to learn to shut your cake-hole, mate? And maybe keep your stripes._ "I'll—ah—I'll just get you that First Aid box then, Mrs Foyle," he winced, retreating to the kitchen.

* * *

Foyle was watching from the living room window when the Wolseley pulled to a halt outside. He waited till he saw Samantha get out on the far side of the car, then turned and walked into the hall to put on his hat and coat, reaching to open the front door for her as he did so.

"You're late," he tutted teasingly, making an elaborate play of consulting his silver pocket-watch. "That was more than half an hour. Per-ritty poor show on your first day back."

Sam gestured ruefully down at her bare legs, the left one clearly grazed and covered with adhesive bandages. "'Fraid I toppled off my bike," she explained. "Brookie's mending it, but I couldn't do much about the stockings…" She pulled a bundle of flesh-coloured silk from her coat pocket. "One of them's beyond repair and the other one's so oily, I don't think it'll—"

"Sam?" Foyle's face was all attention and anxiety. He grasped her gently by both arms and turned her to the light, studying her leg. "You mean to tell me you _fell? Hard?"_

"Pretty jolly hard, yes," chattered Sam. "Two wretched moggies in a fight shot _straight_ across my path, and I came a total cropper on the pavement. Thought I'd wrecked the bike, but fortunately Brookie—"

"Come… and sit down… right now." Foyle steered her into the living room and manoeuvred her onto the settee, both his hands still hovering at the sides of her arms, as if she were liable to fall apart if he weren't there to contain her. He saw that she was limping slightly. "Show me where you fell and where it hurts," he urged, seating himself beside her, his eyes examining her face in open concern.

"Well," Sam began, "my wrist aches—but Brookie put a bandage on it for support"—she drew off her glove to show him— "and my bottom's sore, and across my lower back, and if I twist in the wrong way, I ache around the front a bit," she placed a hand on her abdomen and frowned in concentration, then looked up at him. "I can drive all right, though. Really I can. I drove _here_ without any trouble."

Christopher's hand was parked across his mouth, and Sam didn't like the worry in his eyes. "Oh, Darling, you _are _sweet, but I'm none the worse, really. Just miffed about my good stockings. It was pure vanity to put them on. I should have stuck to the lisle ones for work. But I was so pleased to be going back to work with you…" she reached and stroked his face. Then she planted both hands decisively on her thighs and pushed herself off the settee, wincing slightly as she did so. "Going upstairs for a pee and to change these stockings. Back in two ticks."

Christopher watched her leave the room, and sunk his head in his hands. _Is this what it's going to be like now? _he thought. _Worrying how breakable she is. Jesus! I shouldn't even let her be doing these things now. _"Sam?" he called after her, shakily. "No more cycling after today. For me? Please?"

"Don't be silly," her voice floated down the stairs "Stop treating me like china. How am I going to get from A to B when you're not around?" Foyle heard a drawer opening in the bedroom, followed by a mild _'Ouch! Drat!_' By the time he'd risen from the settee and called after her, a muffled answer came: "I'm in the loo."

"You're in the… what?"

"In the _loo_. The lavatory, Christopher. You need to modernise. Everybody says that now."

"Well _I _don't," he muttered irritably _sotto voce_, and wandered back into the living room, running his hand round the back of his neck in quiet exasperation.

* * *

The day unfolded with a trip to the Bexhill fuel depot, following up new complaints from the Petroleum Board of suspected irregularities. "I thought we'd sorted that lot out once," grinned Sam across at Christopher, as she sat behind the wheel.

"Don't remind me," he said grimly. "That was another occasion when you sent my heart into my throat. Locking yourself in an office with a bomb, for pity's sake! Then ringing up to tell me what a fix you were in. Is it any wonder that I've got no hair?" Sam sniggered, and he turned to face her in the front seat. "This time, just—just stay in the car, hmm?"

"That's not fair, and you know it. Waiting in the car is terribly tedious, and, actually, _cold_, what with it being the end of December and all. With the result that my toes are likely to freeze in half an hour without the engine running which we can't have because it's a waste of fuel and there's a war on not to mention what they'll say if I sit there with the engine running at a _fuel_ depot and if you make me stay outside I might catch my—"

"All right… all _right_!" Foyle quailed before the verbal onslaught. "You can come in with me, then. But stay within sight. No wandering off."

"Christopher, I never _wander off_. I _make enquiries_. Chat to people. Catch them off their guard. In fact," she grinned at him sunnily, "I'm invaluable. _'An asset to the team'_—your words, not mine."

"Can't disagree with that." His smile was almost imperceptible, but she saw his lips twitch once. "How's your—um—you know…" He nodded towards her seat.

"Still sore. But I think some light exercise around the depot will do it good," Sam persisted slyly. "Too much sitting still will stiffen me up more."

Foyle pushed his tongue into his cheek, recognising that he'd been trounced by unconventional—biological—weaponry.

Business was concluded within a couple of hours, and they set off home just after lunchtime. Though it was only a short stretch for her to drive, Sam felt a dull, persistent ache from neck to ankle, and by the time they arrived back at the station, she was feeling distinctly shivery from the tension of gritting her teeth every time she depressed the clutch and pushed the Wolseley into gear.

She kept it to herself, of course, but when Foyle eventually emerged from his office, having shared his findings with Milner, and found her in the kitchen looking strained, he decided enough was enough. Handing her a glass of water, he fed her Beechams Powders; then, ignoring convention, took the wheel and drove her home. "Sorry," she told him disconsolately. "I honestly thought I could beat it."

"Can't be helped," he told her gruffly, but his knuckles were white as they gripped the steering wheel. "When we get back, lie flat and rest this afternoon. I have to go back into work, but I should be home again by six."

Sam stood at the bedroom window and watched Christopher pull away. _I'm useless, _she brooded_. I've hardly managed half a day, and distracted him from his job instead of helping. And he can drive himself perfectly well. _Sam sat dejectedly on the edge of the mattress and bent to undo her shoelaces. "Tsss!" Again the pain shot round her middle, travelling down her leg. She straightened up and kicked her shoes off as best she could, unbuttoning her uniform jacket and lying slowly back on top of the eiderdown. Lying horizontal was, she found, of some relief, but only if she raised her left knee slightly.

After half an hour of staring moodily at the ceiling, Sam's eyelids fluttered closed and she drifted into a doze.

* * *

Foyle pulled to a halt in the yard, and pocketed the car keys, striding into the station.

Brooke looked up from his paperwork. "Got a live one in the interview room for you, Mr Foyle, when you're ready."

"Which _'live' _one would that be, Sergeant?"

"Richard Beardsley, Sir. In for questioning on suspicion of indecent assault. And pretty bolshy with it. Wanted his solicitor. They're in there, both of them." Brooke inclined his head backwards and smirked.

"Right. Indecent… assault." Foyle gave a slow blink of impatience, and pushed wearily on through the double doors. On the way to his office, he collected Milner.

"This Beardsley chap, what's he supposed to have done?"

"Well, Sir, he was ejected from The Ruby last week by the manager. A young woman reported him for feeling her knee and"—Milner's open gaze never faltered—"fiddling with himself in the stalls."

Immediately, Foyle's facial expression was that of a man who had both smelt and tasted something most unsavoury. His face lived his disgust in every unpleasant detail.

Eventually he asked, "Is the, ah, young woman a reliable witness?"

"I'd say so, Sir. Name of Peggy Callander. I spoke to her yesterday at the shop she manages in George Street. Husband's a veteran of Alamein. She's got her head screwed on, and she's most indignant. Wants Beardsley arrested. Says he's a _'mac man_'."

"So. She was… out on her own? Husband still away?" Foyle probed.

"That's right, Sir. The cinema manager says Beardsley came in a long time after Mrs Callander. She maintains she was sitting in an empty row, two rows back from a group of young GIs, and Beardsley moved from his own seat and came and sat right next to her just as the main picture started."

"What have the GIs got to say?"

"Haven't been out to the base yet, Sir, but I telephoned the CO, Captain Meyers, and he was good enough to send a written statement taken from one of the soldiers involved."

Foyle sighed. "Might as well hear that too, then."

Milner produced a manila file and began to relate the account to his boss. "Privates Bailey and Rivera report hearing a woman's annoyed voice behind them, declaring loudly: _'You touch my knee again, mister, and you'll feel a nail-file in the back of your hand.' _I quote Bailey here verbatim from his written account." Milner cleared his throat and launched into the GI's statement. The effect, with his modulated English accent, was vaguely comical: "_'She was some feisty dame, and quite a looker. Madder than a wet hen. So Private Rivera and me go round to see what's up, and he's sitting there with his raincoat over his lap and his pants flies gaping open underneath. The guy was shifty as a shithouse rat—had guilt written all over him. So we grab him, lift him by the pants seat, and throw him down the movie theatre steps. Then we offer to walk the lady home, but she just thanks us and leaves—says she's off to speak to the guy in charge.' _End of statement, Sir._"_

Foyle's hand was on his forehead. The muscles round his mouth were working overtime as he processed the information. "Well," he rubbed his chin. "Let's go and hear what Beardsley has to say."

"Mr Beardsley," Foyle smiled affably as he entered the room, and offered his hand. "Thank you for attending voluntarily today. My name is Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle. Good afternoon, Mr…?" he nodded to Beardsley's solicitor.

"Cruickshank," supplied the portly gentleman, sitting beside Beardsley. "And I've cautioned my client to tell you nothing," he added smugly.

"Indeed." Foyle inclined his head and turned his attention to his quarry. "You felt it necessary to retain a solicitor, Mr Beardsley?" he inquired politely.

"I did. You can't be too careful. Sensitive times we live in."

Foyle tilted his head inquisitively and invited a little more detail. "Mmmsensitive, Mr Beardsley? Care to explain your concerns? Presuming, of course, they aren't the normal _walls have ears _variety?" Foyle chuckled encouragingly.

Beardsley joined him in the levity. "Since you ask, too many women on the loose. Husbands away. Craving attention."

Foyle gave him a pleasant smile and a twinkle. "That's your experience, is it? Out and about in Hastings?"

Beardsley's solicitor cleared his throat in warning, but Beardsley's confidence was growing in front of his new friend DCS Foyle, and he began to dig himself a comfortable hole.

"Plenty of women want squiring around, with their men overseas. But it's a tricky business when they get a dose of guilt and change their minds mid-stream, if you get my drift."

"Mrs, um, Beardsley, _understanding_ is she?" Foyle asked nonchalantly.

"Harriet's not one to make a fuss. She hasn't been too keen since our second son was born. Likes to get me off her hands. Look, Mr Foyle, we're men of the world…"

"Precisely." Foyle nodded with a smile. "So what you're telling me is…?"

"Lonely woman, on the loose. Got involved, got nervous and got vindictive. 'Tween you and me, she just changed her mind."

"Hmm. You were in a public place, though. It's a question of public morals…" Foyle gave the impression of agonising over a minor inconvenience. "Look, perhaps at this point we should just caution you. It's only fair. And Mr Cruickshank's present, to ensure that everything's above-board. I'm sure you understand—it's just for your own, um, protection. I just need to, uh, slip out for a moment. See a man about a dog," he smiled knowingly at Beardsley, who snorted in response.

Outside in the corridor, Foyle stood examining his nails, and thinking he might quite like a bath when he got home. _Wash off some of the slime, _he reflected grimly, then pushed himself off the wall of the corridor and re-entered the interview room.

Beardsley smirked. "Everything as you left it? All present and correct?"

"Pretty much present. And if things aren't correct, I'm about to correct them." Foyle shoved one hand into his trouser pocket and made an expansive gesture with the other. "As if there isn't enough slime trailing across Europe in the wake of the Third Reich, without men like you oozing your particularly repellent brand of mucus over vulnerable women on the Home Front." Foyle widened his eyes, pinning Beardsley to his chair with his piercing gaze.

Beardsley's face turned from cocky to alarmed, and Cruickshank sank his head into his hands, shaking it in "told you so" fashion.

Foyle rubbed his hand across his chin and launched into a quick-fire monotone: "Richard Beardsley, I'm arresting you on suspicion of immoral conduct in a public place and indecent assault on one Peggy Callander, on Thursday, 14th December at The Ruby picture house, Hastings. You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you _do_ say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence."

He paused to allow the words to sink in, then continued at a more measured speed. "Since your solicitor is already present," he nodded respectfully to Cruickshank, "I hope you had no pressing plans for the next few hours." Foyle beamed a sardonic smile at Beardsley, and seated himself at the interview table with a flourish. "So! Preliminaries completed. Shall we start with an account of your movements last Thursday night?" he asked brightly.

* * *

When Sam woke from her doze, it was already dark outside. Once she'd found the light switch, she saw that it was six o'clock. _And still no Christopher. _Cursing herself for her inattention with the light, she moved off the bed to draw the blackout. As she rose, the same—and now familiar—gripping pain shot round her belly and down her leg. She winced, and hobbled to the window to pull across the curtain. Then, clutching her stomach, she limped to the bathroom.

Relieving herself, she glanced down to find a trace of blood on the paper, then another. Gasping in shock, and gripped with sudden fear, she found she couldn't—dared not—stand.

Fifteen minutes later she was still sitting there, dabbing nervously at herself and checking. Every time there was a spot of blood. Her eyes began to prick with tears. _Can't stay here all night, Samantha, _she sniffed. _Sort yourself out and back to bed. Christopher will help you when he comes. _Painfully, she pushed herself to her feet and fumbled in the bathroom cupboard for a sanitary napkin. Having applied it to herself haphazardly, in something of a daze, she dragged herself back into the bedroom, weeping quietly.

Which was how Christopher found her when he arrived home at half past seven, wrung out by dealing with the Beardsleys of this world.

* * *

It was a little after eight p.m. when Foyle hastened down the hallway to answer the doorbell. He hoped anxiously to find his family doctor and friend, Guy Grindley, on the doorstep.

Grindley, a man of around sixty-five with gentle eyes and a shock of white hair visible underneath his hat, was leaning wearily on the railings to the left of the front steps with his bag in his right hand. As Foyle opened the door, the doctor roused himself and stood, tie askew, looking as if he hadn't slept in a week.

"Christopher." Grindley transferred his bag to his left hand and greeted Foyle with a solid handshake as he entered the hallway. "I came as soon as I could. Been at a confinement. Complications kept me out all last night and then most of today. Delivered twins. Boy and a girl. I was just snatching some shut-eye on the surgery couch when you rang."

Foyle was about to thank him for his trouble, when he noticed that the doctor was rubbing at the hand he had just shaken, flexing it determinedly as if to coax the circulation down into his fingers. "You've hurt your hand, Guy?"

Grindley shook his head. "Old war wound, playing up. I had to turn the second baby—it was breech." He rubbed absently at his forearm. "I'm dead on my feet now," he stifled a yawn. "But compared to the mother… my God! That woman suffered! Both babies were born healthy though, for which the pair of us were grateful at the end of it."

Foyle clenched his jaw as he summoned images of Grindley's day. "Really appreciate this, Guy. Terribly concerned about Samantha. She's expecting, and she had a fall this morning. Now she tells me that she's losing blood."

"She's lying down?"

"She is. Upstairs."

"In that case, if it's all the same to you, I'd like to use your sink for just a second."

"Um, be my guest," Foyle raised an eyebrow, but gestured hospitably towards the kitchen.

Grindley lumbered down the hall with Foyle in tow. Arriving at the sink, he turned the cold tap on and filled a large jug that was sitting on the draining-board. Then he took off his hat, plunged his head into the sink and poured the lot straight over his head. "Got a towel?" he asked, around the noise of water gurgling down the drain.

"H-here…" Foyle handed him the kitchen towel from the side of the sink.

"Thank you." Grindley rubbed his face and hair dry, then pushed the towel into Foyle's waiting hands and reached inside his jacket for a comb. "Time passes quickly, Christopher. I hadn't even realised that you'd remarried. Congratulations. You waited too long after Rosalind."

Foyle nodded his thanks. "I was going to tell you in due course, but Sam and I were only married on Saturday."

If Grindley was in any way perturbed by the implications of this information, viewed in light of the reason for his visit, his face betrayed not a flicker. "I'd better go up and have a look at her, then," he announced. By now his hair was neatly groomed, if slightly damp. He laid a hand on Christopher's arm and fixed him with his gentle gaze. "Cup of strong tea, would you, chap? So a poor old bugger can think straight?"

"No trouble, Guy." Foyle smiled understandingly. "Be straight up with it. She's in the, um, front bedroom. You know your way."

"Indeed I do, chap. Yes, indeed I do."

Five minutes later Foyle was carrying a tea-tray up the stairs to the master bedroom. Grindley was perched on the side of the bed, gently palpating Sam's bare midriff.

"How many weeks, you say, m'dear?"

"Erm…" Sam looked embarrassed.

"Eight. And three days," Foyle interjected. Now was not the time for caginess about dates.

"You'd better show me the type of loss," said Grindley, gesturing with his head to Foyle that he should leave the room.

Sam cast Christopher a doleful glance as he withdrew. "I'll be just outside," he smiled reassuringly.

"Right, then, young lady. Date of your last monthly?"

"October the… um, 21st," mumbled Sam.

Grindley reached into his pocket and brought out a diary. "Christopher's sums are right on the nail, then. Clever beggar, isn't he? Show me what you're getting."

Sam fumbled with her underwear. After a few moments, the doctor nodded and patted her hand to indicate she could get dressed again.

"You fell, you say?"

"Came off my bike this morning. Fell on my left hip. Quite hard."

"Hmm." Grindley surveyed her left leg. "A nasty graze or two, I see. Can you lift your leg, Dear?" he placed his hand under her heel and raised it gently.

"Yes, but when it gets to there," Sam showed him, "it hurts like blazes."

"D'you know what I think?" Grindley cocked his head on one side and gave her a kindly pat.

Sam shook her head, and bit her lip, tears welling in her eyes.

"I think… you've jarred your back and slipped a disc—not badly. Just enough to give you gyp. And then you've got this bleeding. Not a lot. A spot or two. Coincidence, maybe. _Perhaps_ you've shaken things up a bit. It's hard to say, but I can tell you this: a bit of spotting does not a miscarriage make. It's not uncommon at this stage of things. And sometimes"—he stopped to make a picture with his hands—"the sac your baby's growing in develops close to the neck of the womb, which means you get a showing just like you've had today. It normally corrects itself as the baby grows." He paused to let the information sink in.

Sam sniffed back her tears and pushed herself up on her elbows, looking hopeful. "You don't think I'm losing it then, Doctor?"

Grindley patted her hand again kindly. "No, Samantha, I don't. But my advice is this: rest up for a couple of days. Take things easy; have a warm bath to ease your muscles; don't slump when you're sitting in chairs—use a cushion to keep you upright; and stick a hot water bottle down the back of your skirt"—he winked—"whenever it's practical."

"And to think this morning I was worried about losing my _job,_" moaned Sam. "This puts things _right _in perspective."

"Lose your job? What do you do, Dear?" he asked gently.

"I drive. I drive my husband."

"Your _husband _was going to sack you?" For some reason, Grindley found this hugely amusing. His let rip with a hearty roar of mirth, followed by a rumbling fugue of laughter. "Oh, he's a hard man!"

Hearing the merriment, Foyle stuck his head back round the bedroom door. "Everything, er, all right?" he asked warily.

"So you're going to sack your _wife_, you miserable item?" Grindley chuckled, looking sideways at Christopher.

"I'm doing no such thing," protested Foyle. "What's she been telling you? _Sam?_" He looked distinctly put out, every muscle in his face expressing utter bewilderment.

Sam shrugged, and grinned at him apologetically.

Still chortling, Grindley delved into his bag and brought out a bottle of medicine, which he handed to Christopher. "Codeine. Give it sparingly, only as required, and after three days, not at all. In my opinion, your wife's going to be all right. No lifting"—he looked pointedly at Sam, wagging his finger—"No gymnastics for a day or two"—he stared meaningfully at Foyle—"And no driving this week. It'll aggravate her back. But if I hear you've sacked her," he turned and winked conspiratorially at his patient, "you'll have me to deal with!"

Grindley moved off the bed, making way for Foyle, who sank down next to Sam and slid his hand into hers.

The doctor stretched, and yawned again. "So, how about that cup of tea now, Christopher?" As Foyle got up and handed him his tea, Grindley sank exhausted into the nearest armchair, fiddling with his collar and loosening his tie. "Ah! Biscuits! Very kind." He grabbed a fistful from the plate on the tray. "The mother's naming her boy _'Guy'_," he beamed through a mouthful of crumbs, "so I'm waiving the fee! Excuse me while I wet the baby's head." He drew a leather-covered hipflask from his jacket pocket and topped up his tea.

Foyle stroked the back of Sam's hand with his thumb and mouthed, _"I love you."_

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

_'Mac man' _was a 1940s term for sexual predators and flashers who frequented cinemas, preying on unaccompanied women. The name was derived from their trademark baggy raincoat ("mackintosh") attire, which they used to drape across their laps to conceal their nefarious doings.

Beardsley represents the 'mac man' who felt my mum's leg while she was minding her own business in the pictures back in 1943. Eat it, Beardsley. Revenge is nigh.

…

I was a bit sniffy about doctors in my notes to the last few chapters. Now to redress the balance.

In the days before the National Health Service, doctors like Guy Grindley—particularly those who practised in poorer areas—were beloved of the communities in which they worked. Very often, they would charge the rich, but treat the poor for free. In this way, their kindness and self-sacrifice made life bearable for those under their care who could not otherwise have afforded medical help. Often they worked all hours, attending sickbeds and confinements in long shifts, and their own health broke down under the strain. Quite a few of them were on the bottle; the things they had to deal with, and the burden of human sorrow they witnessed day-to-day, was doubtless overwhelming.

Guy Grindley was real. My grandmother thought the world of Dr Grindley—he saw her through most of her fourteen confinements—and in due course, sure enough, I had an Uncle Guy, named after the good man who delivered him.

…

More soon.

**GiuC**


	19. Chapter 19

**L'Aimant - Chapter 19**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

_Chapter 19:_ Sam faces some home truths about work and life. Christmas at Lyminster turns into an unexpectedly familial affair.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Robertson's was, and is, a UK manufacturer of preserves. For years, until its no-longer-politically-correct (more accurately, racist) emblem, the golliwog, was "retired" in 2002, Robertson's gollies were considered desirable little mascots. In return for tokens cut from jam-pot and other preserve labels, children (okay, adults too!) could send off for metal golly brooches and badges.

...

Sagely edited, as ever, by _dancesabove. _Thank you _dances._

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_"So you're going to sack your __**wife**__, you miserable item?" Grindley chuckled, looking sideways at Christopher._

_"I'm doing no such thing," protested Foyle. "What's she been telling you? __**Sam**__?" He looked distinctly put out, every muscle in his face expressing utter bewilderment._

_Sam shrugged, and grinned at him apologetically._

_Still chortling, Grindley delved into his bag and brought out a bottle of medicine, which he handed to Christopher. "Codeine. Give it sparingly, only as required, and after three days, not at all. In my opinion, your wife's going to be all right. No lifting"—he looked pointedly at Sam, wagging his finger—"No gymnastics for a day or two"—he stared meaningfully at Foyle—"And no driving this week. It'll aggravate her back. But if I hear you've sacked her," he turned and winked conspiratorially at his patient, "you'll have me to deal with!"_

_Grindley moved off the bed, making way for Foyle, who sank down next to Sam and slid his hand into hers. _

_The doctor stretched, and yawned again. "So, how about that cup of tea now, Christopher?" As Foyle got up and handed him his tea, Grindley sank exhausted into the nearest armchair, fiddling with his collar and loosening his tie. "Ah! Biscuits! Very kind." He grabbed a fistful from the plate on the tray. "The mother's naming her boy __**'Guy'**__," he beamed through a mouthful of crumbs, "so I'm waiving the fee! Excuse me while I wet the baby's head." He drew a leather-covered hipflask from his jacket pocket and topped up his tea._

_Foyle stroked the back of Sam's hand with his thumb and mouthed, "__**I love you.**__"_

* * *

**Chapter 19**

**Wednesday, 20****th**** December 1944**

Grindley had stayed with them for another hour or so, comfortably settled in the bedroom armchair with his tea and biscuits, and neither of the Foyles begrudged him his rest. But once the doctor had left, Christopher made it his business to 'organise' Sam's recuperation. Without discussion, he retrieved his pyjamas from under the pillow and moved them into Andrew's bedroom.

Sam's protests at the new sleeping arrangements were silenced with a stern reminder of the _'no gymnastics'_ caution, and the utterly reasonable explanation that, this way, her spine would not be jarred by any tossing or turning in the night.

"If I stay in this bed with you," he told her, "one way or another, not one wink of sleep will be had by either partner. Don't need to spell it out. You're clever. Know the drill."

Last thing that night, Christopher appeared at Sam's bedside with a hot water bottle. "I'm married to a saint," she groaned.

"Sleep well, Mrs Saint." His eyes twinkled and he planted a lingering kiss on her eager lips before withdrawing to Andrew's bed.

Next morning, the holy man conveyed Sam's breakfast upstairs on a tray, along with sandwiches for later on. As an afterthought, he made a hasty grab for several books from one of the boxes transferred to Steep Lane from Samantha's digs, and left them for her on the bed. "So that you won't have to go up and down the stairs unnecessarily," he told her.

Although this semi-invalid treatment gave Sam the fidgets, she felt the tender concern behind it—they'd both had a rotten fright, and she knew that Christopher needed to deal with the after-effects in his own way.

* * *

An intense, freezing fog had settled on Hastings overnight, and showed no sign of clearing by the time Christopher was ready to drive to work. Temperatures had fallen to well below zero, and everything was covered in rime. The effects on exposed machinery were only too predictable: from Sam's recumbent position on the bed, she heard Christopher try—and fail four times—to start the Wolseley.

"You're going to flatten the battery if you carry on like that,"she told the ceiling and the walls.

There was a hiatus, and Sam's curiosity drew her over to the window, from where she could peer down on her husband between the curtains. The Wolseley's bonnet was folded back on its hinges and Christopher's trilbied head was bent over the engine block. After a few moments, Sam saw him unscrew a spark-plug, examine it closely, then rub at it with... _with your clean, white handkerchief?_ she transmitted crossly._ Oh, __**not**__ your best linen, Christopher. For heaven's sake!_ _There's a __**rag**__ in the glove compartment! _It was all she could do to restrain herself from lifting the curtain net and tapping on the window pane.

From her vantage point, some moments of ill-contained impatience later, Samantha saw her husband step away from the car and push the now very oily handkerchief back into his trouser pocket—_That greasy thing, inside your nice suit-trousers? Honestly! _She craned her neck to see what he would do next.

Christopher folded down the bonnet lid and closed the catch. With a look of satisfaction, he brushed at his palms then climbed back into the car. This time, when he tried the ignition, the engine sprang to life.

Sam knew she should be pleased, but all she felt was disappointment. _He can do everything without my help, _she told herself dismally. _And this_—she surveyed the suddenly unappealing bedroom chintz—_will be my world soon_: _inside, looking through the window, with our baby. And Christopher's life will be outside with the Wolseley… and everybody else._

Sitting on the bed, lost in despondent thoughts of isolation, Sam missed the sound of the front door opening quietly and Christopher padding up the stairs. When she raised her eyes and saw him standing on the threshold of their bedroom, regarding her evenly, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Hullo. It's me again," he said.

"I thought you were still in the car." Sam patted at her chest. "You've scared the daylights out of me, creeping round like that."

"I thought you might have gone back to sleep," he countered reasonably. "So I kept the noise down."

As Sam's pulse returned to normal, an urgent worry surfaced. "Christopher! You've left the engine running! Someone could easily…"

"Quite all right," he grinned, dangling the key to the driver's door from his fingers. "All the doors are locked. But I didn't want to stop the engine. It might never start again, in this weather."

"So why are you…?"

Christopher reached into his pocket and pulled out one very oily linen handkerchief. "Outside temperature's so cold, it's apt to make my nose run. Can hardly wipe it on this 'mechanic's rag', now can I? Or on my sleeve. Bad example to the men." His handsome, lop-sided grin coaxed a little smile from Sam, but Foyle was sharp enough to sense the latent misery beneath, and possibly the cause.

Distractedly, he pushed the handkerchief back into his pocket. "Sweetheart, buck up. It's only for a while. You'll be able to come back next week. Rest and heal now. Bounce back after Christmas… hmm?" He reached down for her hand, and rubbed his thumb in gentle circles over the fan of delicate bones between her wrist and fingers.

Sam's breath hitched, and she sniffed back tears. "I'm useless," she said in a small, high voice.

Foyle frowned and sat down on the bed beside her. "Don't talk rubbish, Sam."

"I _am_ though," she continued miserably. "I can't drive you—and even if I _could_, you don't _need_ me to. And you can mend cars on your own, _apparently_"—this came out as a huff—"and get meals. And tend the sick. And run the house. And wash your own socks. And solve cases. Type your own case notes. Frankly, Christopher"—by now her mood was cranked up to annoyance level—"you're an utter bloody miracle!"

Foyle pursed his lips at both the jibe and the uncharacteristic language.

After a long pause, during which they both sat, hands in laps, and made no contact, he asked her gently, "What happened to _'I'm invaluable! An asset to the team', _yesterday, at Bexhill? What happened to the confident, positive, optimistic, I-can-do-it Sam I know… and love?"

Sam mumbled cheerlessly into her chest. "She ricked her back, took stock, and then took fright—at the way her life is changing… and at how obviously well you cope with _absolutely _everything without her."

"Sam," Foyle tensed his jaw, then slid a hand around the back of his neck, rubbing awkwardly. "We've been through this before. I've _had_ to cope. With home, and work… and, well, with _life_. Doesn't mean to say I enjoy the effort. I _can_ cope without your help at work… doesn't mean I _want_ to. Coping is exhausting. And tedious." _And immensely lonely, _he thought.

He worked his mouth, grasping for the right way to console her. "Shortly, there'll be no choice—I shall _have _to cope without you—you'll have bigger fish to fry than me. When that happens, I shall miss your help enormously, but… you _know _things have to change soon."

Sam's tearful eyes met his. "Oh I _do _know all that. It's just—I was so banking on being part of the team for just a _little_ longer, and now… this…" The tears spilled over. "This _rotten_ luck."

Foyle heaved a sigh of resignation. "You're not in prison, Sam. Just a case of being careful. How _is_ your back this morning, anyway? Hurting very much?"

"Not as bad as yesterday, thank you." Sam sniffed, then wiped her nose as best she could on the back of her hand. "As long as I don't have to bend."

"Right. Well…" Foyle reached into his pocket. "Against my better judgement… fancy doing a morning in the office? Reports to type. No driving. You can bring a cushion." He smirked and pointed. "That one, with the roses will, um, brighten up the old place?"

Sam grinned. "And cram a hot water bottle down the back of my skirt, as per doctor's orders?"

Foyle applied his all-purpose handkerchief to finishing the job Sam had started: he wiped her nose. "If you're sore by lunchtime, Brooke can bring you home." He took stock of the results. "Ah…your nose appears to be—um—black now. Sorry."

Sam ran a finger across her upper lip and examined the oily evidence. _He __**does**__ make the odd mistake, then,_ she told herself with relief. Then, turning to her husband ruefully, "Christopher. I'm sorry about all this. This isn't 'me' at all. And if coming to the station today doesn't work out, then no more moping. I'll just take my medicine and stay at home. All I've managed to do so far this week is drive you mad with worry."

Christopher brushed a finger down her cheek, leaving another streak of oil. He leant back to admire his handiwork, then deliberately added a stripe on her other cheek. "Well, you _are_ my driver," he informed her archly. "Could argue you're just doing your job." He dipped his head then and kissed her on the lips. "Better go and wash your face now. I've made you look like an urchin."

Sam smiled, and rose carefully from her perch. "While you're hunting for a clean handkerchief, better dig out a fresh shirt as well. The back of your collar is a mass of greasy finger-marks. Quite disgraceful." She leant in and slowly removed his hat, placing it beside him on the eiderdown. "A dandy like yourself," she whispered past his ear, "should never mess around with engines—unsupervised."

Foyle snorted, grabbed her hips and guided her firmly down onto his lap. Placing one supportive hand at the small of her back, he reached up with the other and turned her chin to face him. "Disrespect and insubordination of this type... will get you everywhere."

Outside, there was a hiccup and a spluttering noise as the neglected Wolseley engine dropped below requisite idle-speed and stalled.

Inside, Samantha's face and neck attracted far more oily finger-marks before she was eventually allowed to go and wash them clean.

* * *

**Saturday, 23****rd**** December 1944**

"Charles… Look—_absolutely _no need to apologise. Andrew couldn't make it, either… No—well, I've _guessed_ where he is. And you were called away at short notice, so Alice could hardly come on her own—dodging V2 rockets up in Town, for God's sake. Yes… well, of course I do. No, nothing's hit us here in Hastings since beginning of November... Indeed. _I'll _second that, Charles. Anyway, about your kind invitation…"

The Foyles were about to leave Hastings to spend Christmas with Sam's parents, and Christopher was sorting out New Year arrangements for the next weekend. He and Sam had been invited to stay with Rosalind's brother, Charles Howard, and his wife.

"Um. Saturday, around six, I expect, schedules permitting… No, you're right—I wouldn't be too keen on bringing Sam up to the London flat, given these wretched rocket strikes, but since you'll be in Tunbridge Wells… I see… You have?... Oh, is she? And, ah, where's she from, exactly?" Christopher chuckled. "I'll tell Samantha. Imagine she'll enjoy that… See you both next Saturday, then… Look forward to it… Oh, that's very kind, Charles. I'll pass on your good wishes. Love to Alice. 'Bye, Charles. 'Bye."

Sam raised a quizzical eyebrow as Christopher replaced the receiver. "What shall I enjoy?"

"Andrew's Uncle Charles—sends his warmest wishes to you, by the way—has acquired a lady driver from the MTC. She hails from Arundel, just up the road from you at Lyminster."

"Fancy! Did Commander Howard tell you her name?"

"Aah—what was it? Georgina. Yes. Georgina Rose."

Sam thought hard for a moment. "Rose… We _do_ know a _Doctor_ Rosefrom Arundel. He's retired, but sometimes he fills in at Lyminster and takes surgery when Doctor Stirling can't. I saw him once or twice myself before I moved to Hastings. Lovely old chap, actually. Must be—ooh—seventy by now. Wouldn't it be funny if they were related?"

"Soon find out, next weekend. She'll be spending New Year at the Howards'. She's staying for convenience' sake—Charles never knows when he might be summoned to the Admiralty, or up to Liverpool. So you'll be able to swap stories about—um—driving us old chaps around the country." Sam saw the corner of her husband's mouth twitch. But otherwise, not a flicker to betray that he was anything but serious.

"I may have to vet my anecdotes, in that case," she called back as she made her way upstairs, "otherwise, Miss Rose might get the wrong idea about her duties."

Foyle cleared his throat. "Well, whatever you feel is, um, appropriate. You ready, then? Should be on our way, if we want to be at your parents' before dark. About to ring for a taxi now."

"Nearly done, Darling," Sam called down to him breezily. "I'll bring a travel rug, in case the heating in the train compartment conks out."

"Good thinking, Mrs Foyle." He privately acknowledged it would be a case of 'when' the heating failed, rather than 'if'.

"Actually, I might just fill that hot water bottle I've grown so attached to in the past few days, and secrete it about my person."

"Devil of a good idea. Something to warm my hands on, while we're on the move."

"I meant for me."

"Mmmexactly. You hold the bottle. I hold you."

* * *

The train drew into Littlehampton thirty minutes late, causing Sam and Foyle to miss their connecting bus to Lyminster. Though they filled some of the intervening minutes drinking tea in the railway station tearoom, waiting for the next bus, the time eventually came for them to stand outside, in case the bus were to arrive and leave without them.

Sam draped the travel rug around her shoulders for extra warmth, but the persistent freezing fog still left her shivering. Christopher opened his Crombie and drew her close against him, wrapping the overcoat flaps as far around her as they would go. The hot water bottle she'd been hugging on the journey had gone cold, so she unscrewed the stopper and was about to stoop and empty its contents down the nearest drain, when Christopher took it from her.

"No bending."

Sam beamed at him over her shoulder as she settled back under his coatflaps.

The bus finally hove into view and rattled to a halt. Its driver, seeing a young lady, pinched with cold and swaddled in a rug, wrapped up in what looked like her father's arms, took pity on the poor thing, and directed her towards a seat right next to the heating vent. "Come on up then, Miss, you look perished."

"Honestly, you're a lifesaver!" Sam grinned back at her benefactor, continuing chattily, "The driving conditions must have been awful for you today. I wouldn't want to be behind the wheel in such poor visibility."

"Some of the worst I've seen for ages, love. But Lord knows—what with driving in the dark and nothing but slits for 'eadlights year on year, you gets so you could do it blindfold. Anyway, Miss, you settle yourself there. Soon be toasty warm."

Christopher smiled quietly, nodding to the driver, and loaded their cases into the overhead racks, inwardly proud at his young wife's easy charm with strangers.

As there were very few passengers, Sam's chatty friendliness bought them the favour of being dropped right at the gate of the vicarage, with a cheery "Merry Christmas to you, Miss, and to you, Sir!" This was a welcome bonus, as it saved them an ice-cold trudge with cases—not that Sam was allowed to carry much beyond her handbag and gas-mask. Christopher gathered up their luggage without a word, and inclined his head for her to precede him.

* * *

Answering the door to his daughter and son-in-law that evening, Iain Stewart had the look of a man with weighty problems on his mind. Pale-faced, drawn, cardigan wrongly buttoned and stained with egg-yolk—which had clearly been there since breakfast-time—he was quite apparently putting on a brave face for his guests.

"Samantha! My dear child! Thank goodness! It was getting late, and I'm not keen on your being out after dark in this freezing cold. Christopher! Delighted to see you. Come in. Come in."

"It's all right, Daddy, really," Sam reassured her father, somewhat taken aback by his pronounced anxiety. "Christopher was with me, remember."

"Oh, of course—of course. Old habits… sorry, Christopher. I'm sure you understand…"

"Perfectly all right, Iain," Foyle answered genially, reasoning that he'd probably walked in on another domestic ripple between man and wife that was, fortunately, none of his business.

Sam shot Christopher a _do-you-think-he's-all-right _look and was rewarded with an unhelpful shrug as her husband deposited their cases in the hallway and followed Iain casually down the corridor into the sitting room.

Geraldine was installed on the settee, the very image of studied calm, knitting from a pattern, with her glasses on her nose. She looked up briefly over her spectacles, registered the happy fact that company had arrived, and pushed her woolly bundle hastily aside, poking it in haphazard fashion down the side of the settee. "Christopher! Samantha, Darling. Splendid! Now Christmas can begin in earnest!"

She pulled off her spectacles and rose to greet them with a kiss apiece, grasping both of Sam's hands in hers, and pulling her daughter down to sit beside her.

"Oops! Careful, Mummy. I've ricked my back a bit. Can't twist too well, yet." This was all that Sam was going to share on the subject, since she and Christopher had already made a pact that her miscarriage fright would not come up for discussion over Christmas—_No point in alarming them. It's over now._

"Anyway, how _are _you both?" Sam looked pointedly at her mother and then across at her father.

"We're very well, Darling. Quite on top of things, aren't we, Iain?" Geraldine stretched her eyes and mugged encouragingly at her husband.

"Never better," came the over-cheerful reply.

"Your father and I have made mince pies," Geraldine informed Samantha proudly. She turned to Iain. "Show me where you've put them, Dear."

"You _know_ where I've p—Yes, my sweet." Iain patiently moved aside to let his wife lead him from the room. Clearly, Geraldine felt something needed to be discussed in private.

"Iain," Geraldine hissed, en route to the kitchen, "there is _egg-yolk_ on your cardigan. And the buttons are done up _wrong_. What will Christopher think? He is always so well turned out."

Iain glanced down, examining his 'at home' attire. "Well, it must have been like this since this morning. It can't possibly be _that _bad if you've only just noticed. Why didn't you tell me earlier? I could have cleaned it off, or changed."

"I really haven't been looking. I've been too busy with my knit—Oh. _I_ see. Feeling _neglected,_ are we, Iain?"

Iain glared at his wife. "If Christopher's the man I take him for, he'll think a chap has every right to look relaxed in his own home."

"Relaxed is _not _the same as rumpled and messy," she told him sharply. "_Don't_ go to pieces on me now, Iain. It's _really _not the time."

Iain pulled at his cardigan and scratched half-heartedly at the egg. Geraldine took hold of his wrist in exasperation. "Oh… just… _come to the sink_, and I'll _endeavour_ to remove the yolk."

"Well, now," retorted Iain, flexing his slumped shoulders as if lifting a weighty wooden frame, "wouldn't _that _be nice?"

* * *

In due course Geraldine swept back into the sitting room with a plateful of mince pies and a re-buttoned, sponged-down Iain in tow.

"Wherever did you get the mincemeat, Mummy?" Sam asked, through a mouthful of shortcrust pastry.

"Believe it or not, the pantry. I moved two storage jars to clean the top shelf—

where I never go—and _there_, cheeky as you like, was a large jar of Robertson's. Your _father_ (I ask you!)"—she raised her eyes to the ceiling for Samantha's benefit—"has saved you the golly token. The jar must date back well before the war."

Christopher paused mid-mouthful and surreptitiously inspected the inside of his pie. Sharp-eyed Geraldine caught him doing so. "Oh, don't worry, Christopher," she reassured him. "I tried one out on Iain first. Perfectly edible," she craned her neck to Iain, "aren't they, Dear?"

Iain smiled tightly, still smarting from the kitchen episode.

"Well it certainly, um, tastes nice," offered Christopher, recovering his manners smoothly.

Sam was unconcerned with dates—_I mean, beggars can't be choosers, it's not as if she's cooked the contents of an old Egyptian urn!—_and wolfed down her own pie entirely uncritically. Once she'd finished chewing, she slid her hand between the cushion and the arm of the settee and pulled out Geraldine's knitting pattern, curious as to what her mother had been making. _Yellow baby bootees! And a matching matinee jacket and hat! _"Oh, these are simply _adorable_, Mummy. I _love_ them. And the baby will love them, too. Thank you _so_ much! Christopher, come and see what Mummy's knitting for the baby."

Now, there were a number of choices open to Geraldine for handling this misunderstanding. She could lie; divert; postpone; or tell the honest truth. Subdivisions of the "honest truth" option were: reserved; apologetic; tactful; or forthright. After very brief consideration—roughly amounting to the time it took her to blink—Sam's mother cranked the 'forthright' option up a notch, and opted for 'between the eyes'. She walked across the sitting room and plucked the knitting pattern from her daughter's fingers.

"Darling, you can knit your own. This one's for me. You're not the only one who's going to have a baby in the summer. In fact, I might just beat you to it."

Christopher's eyes widened into saucers, his mouth still full of pre-war mincemeat. He pushed himself well back into his armchair, consciously demoting himself to the role of bystander. Wedged between the ample cushions, eyes wandering between Geraldine, Sam and Iain, he laboriously chewed and swallowed his current mouthful. Laboriously, because his mouth had gone quite dry.

Iain shot a look at his daughter. The scarlet of his cheeks soon spread to his entire face, accentuating the pallor of his grey-blue eyes.

Sam turned an incredulous gaze on her father and uttered one word: "Daddy?"

"It's true, Darling," he told her simply, fixing his eyes steadily on hers. "As your mother says, a brother or a sister. In the summer." His eyes were gentle, worried pools, mining her face for a reaction.

"How…?" Sam's shell-shocked question was clearly not the response that Iain had hoped for. He plunged his hands into his pockets and looked down.

"Sam…" Foyle, seeing Iain's discomfort, emerged from his spectator's reverie and leant forward in his chair. "Think it's, um, pretty obvious, Sweetheart…"

"Oh, don't be silly, Christopher. I _know_ how. What I mean is, _how come?_"

Foyle grimaced, "Think that's, um, probably the same question." A twist of pained indulgence pulled at one side of his lips.

"Thank you, Christopher," interjected Geraldine, "but I'm happy to deal with the _how come_ for the benefit of Samantha's curiosity. Darling," she turned to her daughter, "your father and I made love without taking sensible precautions because we thought that I was too old to conceive—how wrong we were; your father is embarrassed and upset, so please don't make things worse; and _I_," she paused, then ran on, "have been distinctly peaky in the mornings, and knitting bootees like the blazes to calm my frayed old nerves. Now I _hope_ that sets things straight for you?"

Sam's face flushed pink, her head tilted as she digested her mother's words. She opened her mouth briefly, only to shut it again. With one shake of her head, as if to clear the cobwebs, she spoke in a severely hurt tone bordering on anger. "Will you _BOTH_" she gasped, looking from her mother to Christopher and back, "please _STOP_ treating me like a _CHILD_?"

The silence in the room was leaden in that moment.

"Sam…" Christopher dipped an ill-advised toe into troubled waters.

"_You,_ particularly!" Sam rounded on him. "How could you even _think_ I'd judge this unkindly after everything we've been through in the last few weeks? Not to mention Andrew and his rotten letter! What sort of person do you take me for?" She gave him such a fierce glare, he blinked and stared into his lap.

Sam turned to face her mother, now standing next to her father across the room. "I'm _angry_, Mummy," she said, remaining carefully calm, "with the _doctor_. Not only did he try to feed you... um"—Sam grasped for the term her mother had favoured—"_snake_ _oil_, he also _told _you—and I quote: _'your body is shutting shop on reproduction_'."

"Indeed he did, Darling," Geraldine conceded, "but he failed to mention the obligatory closing-down sale. So here we are. Ah, well, silly me." She shrugged and peered cajolingly up at Iain, who was now regarding Sam with something verging on apology. "And silly, silly _us_. We got a bargain that we hadn't bargained for."

There was an awkward silence. Geraldine broke it with an apology to Sam. "I'm sorry I was patronising, Darling. I've been terribly on edge. We both have. But it's harder on your father…" She inclined her head towards Iain, widening her eyes at Sam to hint that she should take the initiative.

Sam's face was all tearful affection. "Daddy, please understand, I'm not _judging_, I'm just _worried_. This is such a big thing at Mummy's age. Who has babies at forty-nine?"

"Forty-eight, Darling," Geraldine responded sharply. "You'll have me in my grave before my time. I shan't be forty-nine until October, and by then…"

"Oh you _know_ what I mean, Mummy."

"Mrs Treece," Iain chimed in. "She had a baby girl last year. She must be round about your mother's age."

Sam wasn't comforted. "But Mrs Treece has had—wait a minute—eight, hasn't she? It's not the same. Mummy's—well—she's out of practice!"

Geraldine's hand crept across her lips, to mask a smile. "Darling, never fear. The channels are unobstructed. And your father will look after me"—she gave Iain's arm a squeeze and grinned gamely—"now that he's emerging from the shock."

Christopher regarded Sam's father with pained concern. "How long have you—um—known, Iain?"

Iain looked up, clearly relieved to hear a question he could answer. "It became apparent the morning after the wedding. Geraldine recognised the signs, and the doctor has confirmed this week. Late July or early August."

Sam rose to embrace her mother. "Then our babies might even share a birthday. They'll grow up together, Mummy," she said merrily. "You'll see."

Iain stepped up then to gather both his women in his arms, and Christopher stood, hands in his pockets, by his chair, watching a little enviously from the figurative kennel Sam had put him in.

Eventually, Iain released his daughter with a soft kiss on her forehead, and turned her gently towards her husband, whispering in her ear, "Forgive us our trespasses."

Seeing what a lonely, chastised figure Christopher was cutting across the room from their little family group, Sam's annoyance dissolved. She closed the distance between them and slid her arms under his jacket, planting a kiss on his cheek.

"Am I forgiven, then, Sam?" he asked, pulling his hands from his pockets and folding her to him.

"I was probably a teensy bit hard on you. But you almost deserved it." Wishing to give him a quick way out of the doghouse, she pointed to the rest of the mince pie languishing on his plate. "Do you want that? If not, I'll have it." Christopher pulled his cheek between his teeth and handed her the plate. His eyes crinkled in mirth. He really did enjoy his wife in moments such as this.

"Excellent!" declared Geraldine, clapping her hands. "Everybody's sorry. Christopher; me; Samantha; Daddy; _Mister_ Stirling _Emmmm Deeeeee_… Care for a sherry, anyone?"

"Don't mind if I do," said Christopher. "Some mud in Hitler's eye can't hurt. How about you, Sam?"

"Ra-ther!" Sam beamed. She was now accustomed to the new regime on alcohol chez Stewart, and extremely partial to a Harvey's Bristol Cream.

Iain bent to root around inside the designated liquor cupboard. "Hmm. I see we _also_ have a bottle of Aubrey's home-made greengage wine, if anyone prefers..?"

"Nunno!"

"Er, sherry for me."

"Mmm. Definitely, sherry, thank you."

So that was settled. Aubrey's bottle stayed undisturbed.

Sam planted herself on her husband's lap, and spoke through a mouthful of crumbs. "Mummy, you know I'm a jolly awful knitter…? I wonder—would you… do me one of those as well? Then they could be like twins when we go out together."

"I hope this doesn't mean I end up doing all the work for _two_ pregnancies," sighed Geraldine.

"Of _course_ not!" Sam beamed. "If a wheel falls off your pram or something, I'm your girl!"

* * *

In bed that night, Geraldine lay staring at the ceiling. "The doctor intimated that it might not run to term, but I've resolved to prove him wrong. Indeed, I seem to have a record of doing precisely that."

Iain chuckled, "That you do, my darling."

"But Iain, if anything should happen to me, let Samantha take the baby."

Iain considered the implications of what she had just told him. "Now, why would I do that?" he asked her softly. "Not that you're going anywhere."

"Iain, it would be too difficult for you on your own. Let Samantha take…"

"I should give up my child? Because I'm… what? Incompetent? Old? A messy eater, careless about dropping egg?"

Geraldine sighed sadly. Ian said "Bibs."

"I beg your pardon—?"

"Bibs. One for me, one for the baby. We can both be messy eaters together."

Geraldine sighed again. "You're not taking this seriously."

"On the contrary, I'm taking it to heart. I hear you. But please, let's go to sleep now. We have three joyful but gruelling days ahead of us, and I don't want to spend them contemplating your demise and my inadequacy."

"I'm only thinking you could let her…"

"Not before I lose my faculties or my health. Gigi… don't… consign me to the scrap heap. Plenty of my parishioners will be happy to do that in your stead."

"Iain, I didn't mean that you… I'm sorry, Darling. You're a sweet and gentle, caring man, but I feel so guilty bringing you this responsibility when you're getting ready to retire. And I _am_ a little frightened. If this leaves me… ill, or weak, how will you cope?"

"The Lord will give me strength. And we shall see a specialist. Get you seen at Arundel. Stirling doesn't fill me with confidence. So if there's _any_ possibility that this will damage your health, we should… really we should take advice."

"Iain?" Geraldine turned in bed and gave him a shocked look.

He shook his head. "Of course not. I _just _mean, I want you seen by a proper obstetrician. This is not the time to trust to… luck. The Good Lord has his hands already full, and we should not presume on his indulgence."

Geraldine turned on her side, and rested her head on Iain's shoulder.

"'_Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fa_ll'_,_" he said. "Have we been utter fools, my dear?"

"Utter. We were lazy—underestimated each other."

"I fear that tongues will wag incessantly the moment we announce the news."

"Well, let them. You must write a sermon on the subject of the marriage vows: _'With my body I thee worship'_. I don't recall any codicil that mentions switching off at sixty. Any tuttings from the parish ladies will be sour grapes or jealousy, if you ask me. Merry Christmas, Darling."

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

Geraldine and Sam shouldn't be drinking sherry. We know that now. Back in the Forties, they didn't know that.

At least I haven't got the pair of them smoking like chimneys.

…

Gigi? Well, I couldn't have him calling her Gerry, could I?

…

More soon.

**GiuC**


	20. Chapter 20

**L'Aimant – Chapter 20**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

_Chapter 20: _Midnight mass at Lyminster. Sam reconfigures Christopher's wardrobe. Iain confides in an old friend. The Foyles celebrate Christmas _à deux._

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

This is one of my dual-rating chapters. If you like a bumpier ride, **defect NOW** and read the **M**-rated version of this chapter instead. It's published separately under the title "**L'Aimant – Chap 20 (M)**" (but you will need to change your search-filter settings to "**Rated - M**" or "**Rating: All**" first. And don't forget to click "**Go**" after you have changed the rating, or the **M**-rated chapter will not be listed).

If you prefer to stick with this **T**-rated version of the chapter, simply read on.

…

According to Foyle's War canon, the church in Lyminster is called _St Stephen's_. Apologies to St Mary Magdalene, which had to be ignored as a result.

…

_Knight's Castile_ was, and still is, a UK brand of olive-oil-based white soap, made in a style similar to traditional Spanish soap from the region of Castile.

…

Even _dancesabove_ (who is super-sniffy about misuse of the word 'literally') would allow me to describe this chapter as _literally _packed with lemons. And if you defect to the M-rated version, you will also find a _figurative_ citrus feast.

...

Thanks to _dances _for her edits, and especially for advice on reining in the passion for a T rating ;o)

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_"Iain, I didn't mean that you… I'm sorry, Darling. You're a sweet and gentle, caring man, but I feel so guilty bringing you this responsibility when you're getting ready to retire. And I __**am**__ a little frightened. If this leaves me… ill, or weak, how will you cope?"_

_"The Lord will give me strength. And we shall see a specialist. Get you seen at Arundel. Stirling doesn't fill me with confidence. So if there's any possibility that this will damage your health, we should… really we should take advice."_

_"Iain?" Geraldine turned in bed and gave him a shocked look._

_He shook his head. "Of course not. I __**just**__ mean, I want you seen by a proper obstetrician. This is not the time to trust to… luck. The Good Lord has his hands already full, and we should not presume on his indulgence."_

_Geraldine turned on her side, and rested her head on Iain's shoulder._

_"__**'Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall'**__," he said. "Have we been utter fools, my dear?"_

_"Utter. We were lazy—underestimated each other." _

_"I fear that tongues will wag incessantly the moment we announce the news." _

_"Well, let them. You must write a sermon on the subject of the marriage vows: __**'With my body I thee worship'**__. I don't recall any codicil that mentions switching off at sixty. Any tuttings from the_ parish ladies will be sour grapes or jealousy, if you ask me. Merry Christmas, Darling."

* * *

**Chapter 20**

**Late Sunday evening, 24****th**** December 1944**

In the packed village church of St Stephen's, Lyminster, the Reverend Iain Stewart was bringing Midnight Mass to a close.

_Christ, Light of the world._

_May Thy healing peace _

_bring succour to our troubled world._

_The roar of might is silenced by a baby's cry;_

_for in His flesh, He bringeth peace _

_and endeth the abomination that is war._

_The peace of the Lord be always with you._

**_And also with you._**

_Go in peace to love and serve the Lord._

_In the name of Christ._

_Amen_

**_Amen_**

The pews had begun to empty, but Samantha was still on her knees with head bowed. Screwing her eyes tight, she offered up an extra prayer for her parents, and a question to her maker:_ Lord? Do you see everything coming, or do we sometimes surprise even you? _

It was an interesting issue, and Sam half-opened an eye the better to ponder it. Actually, people often saw things coming from a distance, she reflected, but still managed to be surprised when the inevitable happened. _We look, but often we don't _see._ Perhaps the Lord sees, but he isn't always looking. Oh, golly; do be quiet, Samantha._

Not one to dwell on prayer (if prayer it was), she crossed herself and rose from genuflection.

A giggle escaped her as Christopher bent to pick up his trilby from the pew seat next to him.

"And what's tickled you?" He raised an eyebrow.

"You're very lucky the hat's still serviceable," she whispered confidentially. "I saw Mrs Allcock nearly sit on it after _O Come, All Ye Faithful_." Sam craned her neck to catch a parting glimpse of the accused's ample posterior as it left the pew. "If Mr Allcock hadn't caught her at the very last minute, I don't think the crown of your trilby would _ever_ have popped back up again."

Christopher held his hat by the indents at the front, and swivelled subtly to observe Mrs Allcock's retreating rear. _Certainly a broad and well-upholstered bottom. _And one that had survived five years of rationing to boot.

On a whim, he leant back to compare Sam's own behind. The idea of teasing her on such a subject appealed to him. Briefly, he weighed up the risks of doing so and concluded that the pleasure of some mischief far outweighed the perils.

"I doubt it would recover if even _you_ sat on it," he observed. "_How_ many pre-war-vintage-mince pies do you reckon you've put away since yesterday?"

Sam previously mirth-filled eyes narrowed dangerously. "I'm eating for two, in case you'd forgotten. Obviously, you have _no_ idea how hungry I get these days."

"Not complaining," smirked Christopher, "I _like_ a cushioned seat. Just not convinced my hat would like it."

Sam's response dripped honey. "Oh, Darling, I'm soooo pleased you're satisfied with the goods!" She leant across as if to kiss his cheek, but at the last moment, snatched the trilby from his hand, placed it underneath her bottom… and sat on it.

His astonished gape was met by a defiant look from Sam. "It's the only way to disprove your theory," she told him with raised chin, and thoroughly unmoved by the clear annoyance now spelt in his features.

Christopher squinted at her. "Minx," he growled. "That's the only one I've brought."

"Too bad," she told him coolly, and handed back his flattened hat. "Perhaps I'll knit you a woolly one to travel back in. My knitting's…"

"Awful. Yes, so you told us. Well, _thank you_, Sam, for the kind thought." He gave her a nod of sardonic gratitude, and set about reshaping the bruised felt—one hand braced inside the crown, splayed fingers deftly smoothing round the outside. "We'll be discussing this in private, later," he told her with a tight smile.

"Whenever you're ready," she answered breezily.

Standing in the porch, Reverend Stewart was shaking hands with his departing congregation. Geraldine was beside him, exchanging Christmas greetings with parishioners, and kissing one or two old friends in between.

One by one, the villagers left the little church and set out for home, their low-slung blue-filtered torches barely penetrating the winter mist. It was an amiable but dim procession; the icy fog seemed not only to swallow up the pale beams of artificial light, but also to keep all natural moonlight at bay.

By the time Christopher reached the door—Sam lagging behind with studied nonchalance—Iain was peering out into the milky darkness.

"Not a Christmas candle aglow in _any_ window," observed Sam's father sadly. "On the very day when we are meant to be celebrating the birth of Light into the world, Hitler's hate-filled heart prevents us from illuminating the darkness. It pleases some to cast him as the Antichrist, and what better demonstration do we need?"

Christopher nodded gravely at the wisdom. "Can we help you close up, Iain?" he offered, settling his re-shaped trilby carefully on his head.

"Thanks, dear chap, but Ernest is on hand to help." Iain gestured towards a black-robed figure busy further down the aisle. "Perhaps you'd do me the favour of seeing Geraldine and Samantha safely home? I'll be along in half an hour or so."

"My pleasure, Iain." Christopher offered an arm to his mother-in-law—"Ladies?"—and was about to do the same for Sam, who now stood on the other side of him, when Geraldine looked up and fully registered what was perched atop his head.

"Dear oh, Christopher! I should have warned you not to park your trilby next to Freda. Freda Allcock, felt-flattening terror of St Stephen's pews! In her time, she's ruined hats for countless unsuspecting gentlemen. Samantha, really! You might have tipped your man the wink, Darling."

Samantha leaned round in front of her husband. "Yes, sorry, Mummy—thoughtless of me."

Christopher's eyelids lowered to half-mast. Casting a quick glance in Iain's direction to reassure himself Sam's father wasn't looking, he fed a hand around the back of Sam and pinched her sharply on the bottom. As he felt his wife jump—"Mind your step, my sweet"—he shot her a charming but most un-Foyle-like toothy smile entirely for the benefit of Geraldine.

Sam's eyes flashed in retort, but they contained a smile, and something of a smoulder. She took her husband's arm—now proffered with exaggerated chivalry—and a gloved hand drifted up to squeeze his biceps through the thick material of his coat. For several seconds, her hand lingered there, pressing appreciatively on the muscle.

Together, the three of them set off along the gravelled path towards the lych-gate. To the unschooled eye, Foyle could have been escorting home his wife and daughter.

"See you at home shortly, Iain," Geraldine called back over her shoulder.

"Half an hour, Gi. Go to bed."

Iain wandered down the aisle to join his verger and churchwarden. Ernest Ventham, the Reverend Stewart's longstanding friend, and also his solicitor, was a man of roughly Iain's own age. The services he rendered to the church were voluntary duties assumed since going into semi-retirement two years before. In Iain's book, Ernest was his right-hand man, and now, more than ever, he had the feeling that his friend's support would be appreciated in the months and years to come.

"Ernie," Iain rested a solid hand on Ventham's back, "many thanks once more for all your help with preparations. Shall we expect you both as usual for Christmas dinner tomorrow afternoon? Eh-heh! I rather meant to say, _this _afternoon."

Ernest had just finished taking down the hymn numbers, and stacked them momentarily on the pulpit steps. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a weary sigh. "If it were simply up to me, Iain, we'd be coming. But Joyce has barely set foot outside the house since the telegram. 'Doesn't want to be in company'. You will have noticed that she wasn't here for mass tonight?"

"I did, indeed." Iain nodded his sympathy. "But I'd rather hoped, in view of Christmas… No further news of James yet?"

Ernest closed his eyes and shook his head.

"I'm so very sorry." Iain watched his friend in mute concern as he sank into the front pew and began reliving the awful moment that had devastated his household.

"'Wounded in action'. All it said. No details. Joyce in tears. Bloody cruel." He dragged both hands wearily down his face.

Iain grasped for a positive. "They _do_ say that… erm… after the initial notification, letters can take many weeks to come. I realise it's hard not to think the worst. But in circumstances such as these, no news is good news, don't you think? If James… you know… they'd send another telegram to say so."

Major James Ventham. Career soldier. Thirty-two years of age. On active service. Assumed to be in Sicily, and therefore under General Alexander, ever since an unusual package had arrived in Lyminster late that autumn. The enormous box of lemons, each one wrapped carefully in cotton wool, had reached the Venthams just as the annual common cold epidemic had begun to take hold among the local population. Ailing villagers, who—ironically for denizens of the Limey Nation—hadn't actually clapped eyes upon a citrus fruit in ages, pounced with gratitude upon the heaven-sent supply of sore-throat relief. Joyce Ventham had set up a trestle table in the village hall and handed lemons out to any friends and neighbours with a need. And there were plenty of them.

_Ernest peered over his wife's shoulder as the lemons disappeared. "__**I **__wouldn't mind a taste of one of those," he said. _

_Joyce ignored her husband and relinquished the last yellow fruit to Mrs Jennings, for her five-year-old daughter. "Avril needs a lemon more than Ernest, don't you, Dearie?" Avril's little head and ears were tied up in a gent's woolly scarf, and the fringed ends hung down the sides of her cheeks like bunnies' ears. "What's she got, Yvonne?" asked Joyce, bending down to pat the little girl's head._

_"The doctor says it's laryngitis. Poor lamb can't sleep for the pain in her ears. I've been letting her lie with her head on a hot water bottle."_

_"Aw, bless! Well, never mind, Avril." Joyce stooped down to the small girl's eye-level and tickled the tip of her nose, teasing out a hoarse little giggle. "Mummy will make you some nice lemon water with honey when she gets you home."_

_"Honey?" exclaimed Yvonne. "We'll be lucky! It'll have to be saccharin, I shouldn't wonder. Anyway, thanks, Joycie; Ernest. Say bye-bye to Mrs Ventham, Avril." Avril raised a mittened paw and gave a silent fingers-only wave as her mother led her away._

_Joyce watched them go. "Ernie, haven't we got some honey in the pantry? Take it round to… "_

_"On my way," he told her._

Yes, Joyce had been so proud and happy to share her son's unusual and attentively-packed present. But then, the second week in December, that curt and chilling message had arrived by telegram, and totally upset the lemon cart.

Ernest continued unburdening himself to Iain. "We were quite resigned to James being in the vanguard when war broke out. As you know, by '39 he was already commissioned. But to catch it this late on? Now that they're telling us the tide has turned? We'd started to assume he'd make it through the whole lot unscathed. Got lazy in our thinking. Complacent, you see?"

Iain nodded. Oh, he understood complacency all too well. "At least, though, Ernie, we can all pray in the meantime, while we wait for better news."

Rigidly respectful of church offices and clergy, Ventham placed his hands on his knees and stared, unblinking, at the altar. When he felt himself 'on duty' as he did tonight, he addressed his friend more formally: "That's right, Your Reverence, you and I can pray. But Joyce? She won't have truck with any of this,"—he gestured round the church—"not with the Lord, nor Christmas. The world has gone to hell, if you listen to Joyce." He gave an imperceptible shrug of resignation.

Iain rested a hand on his friend's shoulder. "We'll lay places for the both of you, anyway. Geraldine and Sam will want to pop round after morning mass, and see if they can't coax her out."

Hastily, Iain planned ahead: _Christopher and I can keep an eye on dinner while Sam and Gigi see to Joyce._ _We're equal to it. Modern men. Fathers with their sleeves rolled up… Speaking of which…_

"Er. Ernie…" Iain seated himself next to Ventham and fixed his gaze upon the altar crucifix. "I, er, want you to know that… Geraldine and I are going to be parents… again."

Ernest slowly turned his head and regarded his friend with surprised interest. "You mean, you're going to adopt an orphan? Give a refugee a home?"

"Nnn…" Iain winced and scratched his cheek. "It's like this, old chum: Geraldine's expecting. God's rather shaken _us _up, too."

Ernest twisted back towards the altar, letting out a slow breath that evolved into a whistle. "He moves in a mysterious way," he agreed.

They sat a while in silence. Eventually Ernest said, "You know_,_ I do believe that _this_ piece of news might _just about _tempt Joycie out of hiding."

* * *

"Goodnight. Sleep well, my dears. Big day tomorrow!" Geraldine hung up her coat and hat, pecked both Sam and Christopher on the cheek, and disappeared upstairs, leaving them to their own devices in the hallway of the vicarage.

It was half past twelve—already Christmas morning. Sam glanced coyly sideways at her husband's injured hat, half regretting her earlier provocation, and half in pleasant trepidation at the consequences she was sure to reap.

"Too chilly to linger in the hallway, I'd say," she commented airily, shrugging off her coat and unpinning her hat. As she settled both items onto pegs along the coat stand, she noticed that Christopher was doing the same with his overcoat, but had left his trilby on.

"May as well go straight up, then," he said nonchalantly. "After you." As Sam turned to precede him up the stairs, he reached up and unhooked a piece of Christmas greenery hanging from the overhead light, and tucked it in his pocket.

Sam began to climb the staircase. Halfway up, she sensed her husband close behind, and felt his arms creep round her waist to halt her progress. All at once his voice was in her ear, crisp, clipped, and thrilling: "Not so fast,"—his breath ghosted against her cheek—"_'Felt-Flattening Terror of St Stephen's Pews'._"

Sam imagined he must be standing tiptoe on the tread below, because the brim of his trilby was brushing the top of her hair.

"I told you we'd discuss this later," he murmured. "_Now _is later. I think you owe my hat an apology."

Sam's innards swooped in anticipation of a sparring match. "I've no intention of apologising to a rotten _hat_. It's an _objec_t, without feelings. Unlike _me_. You hurt my feelings, by implying that my bottom was _fat._ Which it isn't. _Yet_. But if it gets that way, half the responsibility lies with _you_, Mister 'Trust-Me-Everything's-Under-Control' Foyle."

Foyle ignored the invitation to express remorse. "The hat is _very _hurt," he carried on. "Its brim is bruised." He pressed his lips into her neck. "Its crown is crushed." He nibbled lightly on the flesh around her pearl earring. "Its ribbon's… rrrrumpled." His hand slid round and up her ribcage. "Who's to blame? _Not _Mrs… All… cock." Foyle's right arm tightened round Sam's middle locking her against him, whilst his left hand anchored round the banister. "The culprit…"—he paused to blow gently on the downy hairline just behind her ear—"is a mischievous _minx_, identifiable by her pert…"—he pushed his lower body up against her rear—"but padded rump. Does she have anything to say before I _thoroughly_ arrest her?"

Sam was giving no quarter. "Pull my 'rump' against you any harder, and I fear your hat won't be the only flattened object about your dignified person…"

"Mmmcertain objects… retain their shape under pressure," he told her educationally. "Feel free to test your premise, Mrs Foyle, in the same way as you flattened my hat."

Somewhere in Sam's distant past, she would have blushed at such a remark. But she had come a long way in her time in Hastings, and especially in the last eight weeks. A gush of pleasure overtook her, and she leant her head half back and round, avidly seeking attention from Christopher's questing lips.

At that point, their on-stair canoodling was interrupted by Geraldine, on her way across the landing to the bathroom.

"Time to shift your spooning to the bedroom, Duckies. Iain will be back from church before you know it, and he won't appreciate an obstacle course of tangled limbs on his way up to bed." Half under her breath, she added ruefully, "As if he hasn't learnt his lesson the hard way without you lovebirds to remind him."

Geraldine continued down the landing and disappeared from view, but her parting phrase—a reflection on the general state of Stewart family affairs—caused no small amusement in the 'lovebird' camp.

"Night, Mummy," giggled Sam, and Christopher pressed his face into her shoulder, chuckling.

* * *

**Monday morning, 25****th**** December, 1944**

Just after dawn, Foyle woke beside his sleeping wife to see there was a lovely day in store: a shaft of sunlight shone between the curtains of Samantha's girlhood bedroom onto the double bed. In honour of their first stay as a married couple, her thoughtful parents had transferred a bedstead from the attic, complete with its original feather bedding. It made for quite a cosy nest.

His next, and more prosaic thought, was that the curtains must have been improperly drawn the night before—an oversight, that, had they been in Hastings, would certainly have brought an ARP warden to the house, and earned its occupants a hefty fine.

"Sam!" Foyle gently shook his wife's sleeping form. "The sun's out. Open your eyes, Sweetheart, before it goes back in again!"

"Meuuuh!" Sam's rise to wakefulness was laboured. Cosy, warm, and still extremely sleepy, snuggled on her side against her husband, she twisted minutely to stretch herself. The movement was a wrong one. "Tsss! Ow!" She shifted painfully onto her back and pulled both knees up to relieve the ache. "Hoo. Crumbs! How long do slipped discs _last_, do you suppose?"

"Wish I knew. Never had one, Sweetheart." Christopher's face was all concern. "Tried to be careful of you last night. Hope nothing we did jarred it…" He carefully helped her realign herself, and as he did so, allowed his mind to wander back to the early hours before they had finally given in to sleep…

* * *

"So was that _it, _then?" Behind the closed door of her bedroom, Samantha draped both arms hopefully around her husband's neck as he set about loosening his tie.

"Mmm? Not sure what you mean." The look he gave her was casual and uncooperative, with just a hint of imp.

"On the stairs. _That_ was the hat's revenge? You threatened—no you _promised_—to '_thoroughly arrest'_ me."

Christopher shrugged. "Yep. A bluff, though. Don't dare arrest you in your fragile state."

"Am _jolly well __**not **_fragile." Indignant Sam. "Well, apart from the odd twinge. And I want to be arrested. Arrest me, Detective… Chief… Superintendent," she punctuated the command with kisses to his stubbly cheeks, and dipped her head to nip at his lips; her fingers wound persuasively round the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

"Nup." He turned his head aside, avoiding her advances. "Can't do it. Too risky. It could put you right back where you were on Monday."

"Oh! We _can't_ go all this time without…"

"We can go a week or two. Until your back's in order."

Sam huffed, crestfallen, fingers still toying disconsolately with his curls. "Oh gosh; _please_ not, Christopher. Because if something doesn't happen soon, I'll burst. We haven't gone beyond caresses in a week, and I'm _so_ churned up. I've even squashed your hat to get attention. What's the point of being married if we can't… ?"

Christopher's expressive features were an object lesson in how to stifle mirth. "You sat on my hat out of, er, _deprivation_?"

"Absolutely. So, you see? It's your duty to sort me out."

"My… duty? You mean… in the way that an officer of the law might sort out any, um, desperate character?"

"Precisely," grinned Sam. "Arrest me. Forthwith."

A fiery twinkle crept into his eyes. For all his teasing, Foyle was far from easy with the prospect of another week of his desirable young wife off-limits. A dozen years in the wilderness had not gone any way towards curing him of what could be referred to as his 'baser' urges, and though he'd quickly learned to distract, and, in extremis, to appease himself in the normal way of things, Sam's charmingly enticing presence in his life—and now in his bed—had reawakened those desires with renewed intensity. In this new state of affairs, persistent cajoling from Samantha was guaranteed to scupper all his usual diversionary tactics.

His mouth quirked upwards and he sighed in mock resignation. "Well… if it comes down to it, and you _insist_…"

"I do. I absolutely do."

"You _know_ we shouldn't," he began again, somewhat less convinced and therefore less convincing. The words were hollow, and his argument for prudence was, assuredly, now doomed to failure.

Sam sensed a victory, and latched on to his ear, nipping at the sensitive rim around the shell. He smelt of Knight's Castile and sandalwood. "Mmm. Darling. Lovely," she hummed gratefully. "Granted, lying flat's a problem at the moment. If we could just be gentle about things…"

Foyle smiled softly to himself. Through all their lovemaking up to now, the act of love itself, whenever they had lain together, had certainly been _traditional_ in disposition. They were an affectionate couple, fond of eye-contact, and as such, keen on expressing passion face-to-face. For all he knew, therefore, in Sam's view—and certainly in her experience—arrangements for full intimacy never strayed beyond the missionary position.

Now was the time, perhaps, to widen Sam's horizons.

His voice was kind, but business-like. "Gentle is one way, Sam. Or else… inventive."

Sam pulled back to read his eyes, and probed. "What did you have in mind?"

"Easier to show you than describe." He led her to the bed and eased her down to sit beside him, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb.

Sam waited patiently for instruction, but found herself distracted by her husband's ever-present trilby. "Aren't you going to take that off?"

"What off?" His tone was blatant non-cooperation, with just the slightest upturn of his mouth—sufficient to provoke.

"The wretched hat." Sam reached up to remove it.

Foyle flinched his head back, catching her firmly by the wrist. "Nup. I'm going to wear it all through Christmas, to remind you of your crime." Then he fished inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a sprig of mistletoe, the stalk of which he deftly slid beneath the rumpled ribbon of the hatband.

"There," he announced. "Now we're fit to go." He leant towards her, mistletoe bobbing cheekily in front of his face, and uttered the familiar formula, with solid emphasis on every word. "Samantha Foyle, I arrest you for the crime of malicious damage to a trilby hat. Anything you say will be taken… down… and used in evidence."

Sam's eyes sparkled at the promise of some mischief. "They'll be coming down jolly soon anyway, so I hardly need to speak the word." Dipping her head, she stole a quick kiss underneath the trilby and its Christmas greenery, and waited, beaming with anticipation.

Foyle licked his lips in thought, then sighed and rose, removing his trousers. Next he took off his jacket and waistcoat, folding and draping both carefully over a nearby chair.

He stood in just his hat and shirt-tails now, some way ahead of her in clothes-removal. Giving his wife a measuring look, he pulled Sam to her feet to face him, then brought his hands up to unbutton her blouse. Once he'd reached the end of the line of buttons, he slid his fingers around the back of her skirt to release the waist-fastening and pull down the zip. The skirt fell round Sam's ankles, and with the merest shrug of her shoulders, her blouse soon followed.

"Better." Foyle took a step back to enjoy the view: Sam was in a satin camisole and French knickers over her suspenders and stockings. "Fetching," he murmured, trailing a finger down between her breasts. "But no, um, corsetry?"

"Brassières tend to provoke lectures from my husband," Sam explained, "so in the end I've decided that they're best left off."

"Well, aren't _I_ lucky. Be sure to thank your husband for me." Christopher ventured a hand to weigh one satin-covered breast, soft and heavy underneath the flimsy undergarment.

Sam melded her lips to his. She had always loved learning from him, and their explorations that early morning were no exception. As she felt his urgent breath upon the nape of her neck, and his strong arms anchoring her bowed form against the evidence of his passion, she found that experiencing him differently could be as profoundly romantic and thrilling as it was intense.

For Christopher, it was a brand of intensity that proved his wife an apt and innovative pupil. She accepted all that he could teach her and then taught him a few lessons of her own. To be precise. Sam's enthusiasm knocked him supine, hat and all.

Afterwards, recovering a little of his composure, he raised a hand and groped behind his head into the narrow space between the pillow and the headboard, and fished out a flattened lump of felt. "Look at this!" he protested mildly. "You've done it again, by God!"

"_Told_ you to take it off," she giggled.

Halfway up the staircase on his way to bed, Reverend Stewart froze, embarrassed, in his tracks. The vocal transports of delight resounding from Samantha's bedroom halted his ascent. He stood a moment, mortified, pinching at the bridge of his nose. Finally he sighed, obliged to concede that his daughter had reached both adulthood and the pinnacle of joy. As he resumed his climb, he opened up his heart and mind to make room for his next, soon-to-be-cherished, child—one he would survive, he hoped, to usher into similarly jubilant maturity.

* * *

Whilst Christopher's recall of their erotic early-morning marathon still was in full flow, Sam lay with closed eyes, luxuriating in the same memories of their tender lovemaking.

"Darling. Mmm. I've never enjoyed such a romantic start to Christmas," she purred.

Settled with her shoulders against the headboard, she gradually found herself free of troublesome twinges, and turned her attention to the window. "_Do_ open the curtains, Christopher. Let's have a proper look at Christmas Day!"

Foyle drew back the heavy damask drapes, allowing the bright low-angled winter sunshine to stream into the bedroom.

Scrunching her eyes, Sam raised a hand to stave off the piercing brilliance. "Golly! After a pretty jolly awful week of weather, the light is simply breathtaking."

Foyle turned to take in the vision of his wife, propped up in bed, bare-armed, gorgeous and dishevelled in the sunlight. He climbed back beside her under the covers, and pressed kisses to her upper arm. "The sunshine has nothing on my lovely, sunny wife. Thank you for last night," he hummed. "And by the way… the hat forgives you, Darling."

"Oh, that poor old hat!" Sam stroked the soft, thin fuzzy hair on top of Christopher's head. "I'll soon sort it out."

"Will you?" he smiled into her arm, not really caring one way or another any more.

"Absolutely! Re-blocking hats is a complete doddle—we all learnt how in Girl Guides, and"—she added proudly—"I even got my milliner's badge. Your trilby will be ship-shape and Bristol fashion in time for when we leave on Monday." _An upturned saucepan and a kettleful of steam should do the trick_, she thought.

"No woolly hat to travel home in?" enquired Foyle, with more than a hint of relief.

"Your dignity is safe, my darling." Sam ran a hand over his head, then tucked her chin into her neck to focus on his sparsely-covered scalp. She added musingly, "Although, you know, I might just try to knit you a nightcap, anyway—to keep your noggin warm on winter nights."

Foyle closed his eyes and edged his crown into the crook of her armpit, resting his cheek on her breast. "No, thanks," he said. "You do that pretty well, already."

******** TBC ********

More soon.

**GiuC**


	21. Chapter 21

**L'Aimant – Chapter 21**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

_Chapter 21:_ Constable Davis finds he has competition. Sam and Foyle discuss rules of behaviour on duty. Eastbourne learns its manners.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

I've borrowed _beingrowdy's_ smart dog Hector (from _"Home is where the heart is"_) for this chapter. Hector is a German Shepherd—a breed known in the UK and Commonwealth countries mostly as 'Alsatian'. The original breed name, (a translation of _Deutscher Schäferhund_), fell out of favour after World War I. Notwithstanding the 'official' renaming of the breed, a Brit of the World War II era would have recognised a German Shepherd when he saw one, and would have still thought of it as such. A dog by any other namewould growl as scary.

…

'Spiv' is World War II slang for a petty criminal who deals in illegal, specifically black-market, goods. The wartime spiv's trademark garb was a double-breasted pin-striped suit, dark shirt, loud tie and battered trilby hat, pushed back rakishly on the head. Furthermore, no self-respecting spiv would be seen dead without a Douglas Fairbanks Jr. pencil-moustache and a ciggie hanging from his lower lip.

…

_dancesabove_ is my lovely beta. Considering the doggy content of this chapter, I feel I should rename her _danceswithwolves _;o)

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_Foyle drew back the heavy damask drapes, allowing the bright low-angled winter sunshine to stream into the bedroom._

_Scrunching her eyes, Sam raised a hand to stave off the piercing brilliance. "Golly! After a pretty jolly awful week of weather, the light is simply breathtaking."_

_Foyle turned to take in the vision of his wife, propped up in bed, bare-armed, gorgeous and dishevelled in the sunlight. He climbed back beside her under the covers, and pressed kisses to her upper arm. "The sunshine has nothing on my lovely, sunny wife. Thank you for last night," he hummed. "And by the way… the hat forgives you, Darling."_

_"Oh, that poor old hat!" Sam stroked the soft, thin fuzzy hair on top of Christopher's head. "I'll soon sort it out."_

_"Will you?" he smiled into her arm, not really caring one way or another any more._

_"Absolutely! Re-blocking hats is a complete doddle—we all learnt how in Girl Guides, and"—she added proudly—"I even got my milliner's badge. Your trilby will be ship-shape and Bristol fashion in time for when we leave on Monday." __**An upturned saucepan and a kettleful of steam should do the trick**__, she thought._

_"No woolly hat to travel home in?" enquired Foyle, with more than a hint of relief._

_"Your dignity is safe, my darling." Sam ran a hand over his head, then tucked her chin into her neck to focus on his sparsely-covered scalp. She added musingly, "Although, you know, I might just try to knit you a nightcap, anyway—to keep your noggin warm on winter nights."_

_Foyle closed his eyes and edged his crown into the crook of her armpit, resting his cheek on her breast. "No, thanks," he said. "You do that pretty well, already."_

* * *

**Chapter 21**

**Wednesday, 27****th**** December 1944**

DCS Foyle arrived back from his family Christmas to find an animal in the station foyer. It wasn't Beardsley, and it wasn't Davis. Bizarrely, in Foyle's absence, the constabulary appeared to have acquired a German Shepherd—Foyle corrected himself—an _Alsatian_ dog. It sat patiently on its haunches before the front desk, panting and surveying the swing doors at the station entrance with an expression of alert interest. The dog paused in its vigil only to assess—and then dismiss—Foyle as of no immediate import.

Foyle met his sergeant's eye and gestured towards the canine sentinel, one eyebrow raised. "Umm?"

"Morning, Sir. You've noticed our new recruit, then?" Brooke grinned and leant over the counter to scratch the animal between its pert black ears. "He answers to the name of Hector. Member of the uniformed brigade."

Foyle grimaced and rubbed the corner of one eye with his little finger. "…and the bright idea of whom?" _Hugh, as if I didn't know._

"Superintendent Reid's brought him in as a sniffer-cum-pursuit hound."

"Rrright."

Brooke's face assumed a cheeky grin, "But we're going to put _'_im on the front desk _'_stead of Davis—raise the bar a bit."

Hector yawned.

"Well, um," Foyle tilted his head and stretched his eyes, "I'm sure he'll be a valuable addition to the team." He turned and pushed on through the doors into the corridor.

Brookie glanced idly behind himself to see what his constable was up to. Davis had been having a bit of trouble with his chest since Christmas, and this morning he was wheezing like a pair of rusty bellows.

"Nasty cough you've got there, Davis. Too many Woodbines over Christmas, was it? Shouldn't smoke so much, should ya?"

"No, Sarge." Davis cleared his lungs with hearty tussive force.

"Bloody hell, Eddie. Spare us."

"Sorry, Sarge. Me muvva drove me up the wall all 'oliday, so I dug into me winnings"—he dropped his voice and cocked his head towards Foyle's office. "_from the_ _you-know-what_. Ended up smoking the ruddy lot from nerves." With that, Davis put his fist up to his mouth and hacked like a consumptive in a freezing garret.

Hector whined and puckered his furry brows, looking pleadingly up at Brooke. This drew an irritable scowl from the normally even-tempered Davis.

"Wotchoo lookin' at the dog like that for, Eddie?" Brooke parked both hands on his hips. "He ain't done nothing."

"Well, 'e's _German,_ innee, Sarge? Can't be too careful, can ya?"

A snort of pure disdain from Brooke.

Davis' voice took on an aggrieved tone. "But Sarge? You ain't _really_ goin' to give the dog my job…?"

Brooke looked at his constable wearily_. Jesus wept! _"Go and put the kettle on, you daft bugger. And bring a bowl o' water for Herr Hector, here."

"Sarge…?" Something was still bothering Davis.

"What."

"'Ave I got to wait on the dog, an' all?"

"Well, put it this way, Davis. If you stand there hopin' that the dog'll put the kettle on and wait on _you,_ you'll 'ave a bloody long wait."

Sam strode indoors from parking the Wolseley, and, spotting a four-legged friend, made straight for Hector's eager muzzle and his ears.

"Hell-oo, boy. Aren't you splendid! Yeuuusss!"

Hector stretched his neck so that his muzzle nudged her lap, and screwed his eyes shut, growling softly at the attention.

"He doesn't do that when _I_ scratch his ears, Mrs Foyle." Brooke leant forward, resting chin on hand, the better to observe Sam's budding friendship with the dog. "What's your secret?"

"I honestly don't know." Sam beamed up at him. "Dogs just like me. Always have done. What's he doing here, Brookie? What's he called?"

"Mr Reid's idea. He reckons we need something that can run faster than the spivs. Name's Hector, and he's trained to home in on shifty-looking blokes in pin-striped suits and trilbies." Brookie's mind made mischief with that image, and he broke into a grin. "Mr Foyle—he hasn't got a pinstripe, has he? I'd 'ate to see him with a big 'ole in his trouser-seat."

Sam's peals of laughter echoed through the station, finally drawing her husband—who'd been eavesdropping—out of his office. Foyle took in the scene, and shot Sam a 'slow burn' look. "When you're, um, quite ready, Sam?" He cast Brooke a hooded sideways glance before bringing his eyes to rest again on his wife. "Paperwork. Reports to type. Then Eastbourne." He swivelled on his toe to head back to his office.

"Be right there, Sir," she called to his departing back. Sam finished playing with Hector's ears, and earned a farewell bark, accompanied by the thump of an enthusiastic tail against linoleum.

"Well," sighed Sam, "sorry, Brookie. Must dash. 'His Master's Voice'. But"—she lowered her voice conspiratorially—"I think we're all right on the suits front. _Fairly_ sure he doesn't own a pinstripe. And, from memory, he only looks shifty when he's telling people that he's 'caught one _this big_'!" Sam held her hands a good two feet apart, grinning broadly. She gave Brooke a parting wave before pushing through the door into the corridor.

"You lucky hound," mouthed Brooke to Hector. The dog gazed after Sam and whined.

* * *

Sam made her way down to her husband's office. She could see his coat and trilby on the hat stand through the half-open doorway, but no sign of Christopher. Not seeing him anywhere, she leant back and called out into the corridor, "Christopher…?" Getting no reply, she stepped inside the office, puzzled.

The door closed quietly behind her and Foyle emerged from behind it.

Sam started. "Oh! For goodness sake! I called…" She gave him a stern look. "Hiding out in your own office, Mr Foyle?"

"Flirting in the station foyer, Mrs Foyle?"

"_Flirting? _With a _dog?_" Her face spelt utter bewilderment.

"With Sergeant Brooke."

"Oh, nonsense. Christopher! I never _flirt _with Brookie. We just get on well. We horse around. _Don't _tell me you're jealous?"

"Mmmnot seriously. Just that there's work to do..."

"Yes. Paperwork. And typing. You said just now. And Eastbourne, after."

"Hmm." Foyle manoeuvred Sam flush against the inside of the door and pushed his lips against her ear. "So… you're fond of dogs?"

"Suppose I am, quite." Sam's eyes involuntarily fluttered closed as she struggled to maintain her concentration on the topic. "Yes—I'd say I am."

"German Shepherds are a clever breed. Obedient. Loyal. Energetic. They need exercise, though."

"They do?" Her mouth curled into a smile, hands creeping up to rest on his shoulders.

"Mmm. Lots. And regular. Or they become—um—anxious, and they bark a lot."

"Accuse their wives of—oh! Mmmm—flirting?"

"And they chew at things."

"Their cheeks?"

"The furniture. They fret if they're abandoned for long periods."

Sam pleaded with the ceiling. _As if we're talking about Hector!_ "Should I be checking your desk for teeth-marks then? Five whole minutes of neglect from your—your handler. Hardly very long."

"Seemed longer. Brooke would have kept you chatting. The men love you. The dog, apparently, loves you." Foyle grasped her waist and planted his lips over hers. "But I married you," he mumbled into her mouth. "And I require you _in_ here with _me_."

"Christopher—" Sam disengaged her lips.

"Mmm?"

"Reminding you there's work to do."

"Fine. Just a moment." Foyle resumed the kiss, angling his head sideways to gain better purchase. His hands slid up her ribcage and lingered over the rough fabric of her tunic, but she caught his hands and halted the embrace.

"Shame on you! You know better than this. We're in your office. It's broad daylight. And a working day. Only last week you were laying down the law on conduct. And I quote: _'My earlobes are off limits.' _So…"

"So?"

"So, what do you have to say for yourself?"

"Yes. Crass of me." Foyle stroked her arms and pushed himself away. Leaving her plastered to the inside of the door, he cleared his throat, and turned towards his desk.

"I say!" protested Sam. "You didn't have to cut things off _quite_ so abruptly."

"Right you are." Foyle spun neatly on his toes and resumed his previous position, leaning into her, dispensing kisses.

Reports got typed, but not for ten delicious minutes, and only then because they heard approaching footsteps in the corridor and lost their nerve.

* * *

Later that morning they were en route to Eastbourne, and Foyle's hand was resting on the back of Sam's seat, inches from the soft wisps of hair at the nape of her neck.

He cleared his throat. "On-duty conduct. Rules. We need to make some."

"Fire away. I'm all ears for these so-called rules. I bet you'd break them first." She smiled broadly forwards through the windscreen. "As I recall, _you _broke them in the first place: '_I'm a fraud. I didn't ask you here to be hospitable',_" she quoted, with a perky grin. "But I'm jolly glad you did, or else we'd still be Sir and Sam and end of story."

Foyle hummed in mild irritation. "I can see I need to watch myself with you. I think you file away my every utterance, just so that you can quote it back to me later. Your brain is like a sponge."

"I say! Steady on!" Sam was indignant.

"Oh, it's a compliment." He paused. "You do distract me, though."

"It's not deliberate. Work makes me chipper—being in the thick of things excites me."

"Precisely. Love to see it. Trouble is… it excites _me,_ too. Regrettably. And I have a job to do."

Sam pulled her eyes from the road and risked a sympathetic sideways glance. "Sorry, Christopher. But it's… well, it's bound to wear off after a bit."

Foyle's face took on a look of some alarm. "Christ, Sam. I hope to God it doesn't."

Sam suppressed a smirk. "Well, I shall have to stop work in February anyway, shan't I?" she fished.

"Or March," he hedged. _I shouldn't keep her on…_

"Or March." Sam grinned. _Another month before he makes me leave!_

* * *

As planned, they 'did' the regular Eastbourne run. Foyle swept into the station, Sam in tow, to a chorus of "Morning, Sir" from the uniforms who saw him enter—and those included Constable Hollyoak, whose gossip had precipitated Parkins' failed attempt to carpet Foyle.

Naturally, it hadn't been Hollyoak himself who'd blabbed to Parkins. Hollyoak was, in Parkins' universe, the rough equivalent of an amoeba. It didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that information had been passed up the hierarchy by the man in charge here—most likely after overhearing gossip in the kitchen.

Foyle halted at the front desk, and placed both sets of fingertips proprietorially on the counter. "My _wife_"—he let the term sink in—"would like some _tea_ while she waits, constable," he told Hollyoak icily, fixing him with a gaze of studied indifference. Then, without a backwards look, he walked purposefully along the corridor in search of Chief Inspector Starkey.

"We'll see to it, Sir." SergeantTemple stepped hurriedly up to the desk, and answered on behalf of his subordinate, who was apparently struck dumb. Hollyoak stood rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and nervous.

"Sort that out Holly," continued Temple smoothly, one eye on the DCS's back until he disappeared. "Morning, Mrs Foyle." Temple gave his lady visitor a polite nod that didn't quite verge on the friendly.

Sam fancied she sensed some tension in the atmosphere. In all their previous trips to Eastbourne, Christopher had never once demanded tea for her, and as the station was generally busy, no one had ever offered. Today was somehow different, and her husband's manner openly abrupt. She had missed out on the Eastbourne trip the week before Christmas because of her bad back, so this was their first visit together as a married couple. It struck her, then, that Christopher was probably asserting her change of status. But why was he doing it in such a tetchy fashion? Not having been forewarned by her husband of any issues with the Eastbourne people, she put his manner down to nerves, and resolved to ask him later. Meanwhile, there were waters to smooth: "Morning, Sergeant. Don't worry if you're busy," she told Temple amiably. "I'll just wait here and read until they're finished."

"No trouble, Madam. Please take a seat." Temple gave her a quick smile that didn't reach his eyes. Though he'd not been personally involved in spreading gossip about the DCS and his driver, he was all too aware of Hollyoak's involvement. Completely so, really, from the moment Starkey had called him in and blustered "What's this I hear…?!" Temple, personally, would have left the whole lot well alone, and he told the Chief Inspector as much. But Starkey never listened to him anyway, the prat—uncle in bloody Whitehall, and an eye on Foyle's job. Yeah. That was all it was.

So, to put it mildly, Temple was more than unhappy with the fallout on his patch. On balance he would really rather _not_ have the area chief, whom he respected, giving his staff the Arctic glare every visit. The girl—Foyle's wife—looked pleasant enough, but at the end of the day he'd prefer she wasn't sitting on a bench decorating his foyer and attracting curious stares from his men. Bad form all round.

Blissfully ignorant of the dilemma she'd provoked some weeks before, Sam settled down to read the book she'd brought along to pass the time. A Christmas present from her mother, it was Rose Franken's _'Claudia: The Story of a Marriage'_.

_"Darling,"_ Geraldine had written on the fly-leaf. _"Enjoy this for its warmth and wisdom, but don't compare yourself to Claudia. Her sweet but dim approach to life does nothing for a modern woman's reputation. On the other hand, her husband, David, is adorable, and you will surely want to add him to your small but desirable collection of wise and wonderful men. Mummy."_

Sam had barely reached page five, when the sound of a male throat being cleared drew her attention away from her novel.

"Your tea, Miss—Madam. No sugar left. Sorry." The hand offering her a pale green china cup and saucer belonged to a fair-haired young man several years her junior, with light brown eyebrows and worried-looking hazel eyes.

Sam grinned conspiratorially. "Anyone would think there was a war on, wouldn't they, Constable…?"

"Hollyoak, Madam. Yes, I s'pose they would." He shot back a nervous grin. "We've got some saccharin out back..." he offered.

Sam pulled a face. "No thanks, I never think it tastes the same, do you?"

"Know exactly what you mean," he nodded. "Enjoy your cuppa, now." He made as if to withdraw, but Sam carried on.

"The children miss the sugar most, of course. And old people. And expectant…"—she checked herself—_Oh for goodness sake, be quiet, Samantha!—_then continued in a smaller voice, "um… mothers."

Hollyoak blinked at her. He should have left things there, but something made him open up a crack. "I… let my gran have mine." Sam's eyes lit up with interest, so he ran on. "She spits the tea out otherwise, and Mum goes spare. So I give my sugar ration to gran. A terrible sweet tooth, she has. And she hasn't got much else in life, now. So I give her mine, and welcome." He wrinkled his nose. "It was strange at first, drinking tea without, but I don't miss it any more."

"That's kind of you, Constable Hollyoak. I'm sure your gran appreciates the gesture."

He shrugged. "Not sure she does. She doesn't really know us any more. But she knows if there's no sugar in her tea." He gave Sam a resigned smile.

Samantha's face was softly radiant with admiration. "Thank you for the tea, Constable Hollyoak."

"Everybody calls me Holly. And you're welcome, Mrs Foyle."

Returning to her book, Sam was soon absorbed by tales of Claudia's hapless misadventures and her husband's sweetly tolerant reactions. Somehow, she noted, Claudia always managed to land on her feet, and astonish David with her offbeat wisdom. _I wouldn't mind astonishing Christopher, _she thought, _outside the—er... _She looked up sharply, hoping nobody had seen her blush. _Wish I could do something he can't._

Over an hour passed, and Christopher was still nowhere in evidence. At one point, Samantha fancied she could hear an agitated voice along the corridor, followed by her husband's more measured, muted tones. But it was only momentary, so she turned her attention back to Claudia and David. The heroine's latest scatterbrained doings were still making her chuckle when Hollyoak appeared before her with a second cuppa.

And this time there was sugar in the tea.

"Good heavens! Where did you magic that from, Holly?" Sam enthused. "I thought you said there _was_ none."

Holly nodded. "That's right, I did. But I asked around the station. One of the lads had brought some in, and he offered it. Got to keep your strength up, Mrs Foyle…"—Sam looked at him curiously, but he recovered quickly from the gaffe—"… in the, er, cold weather. Oh—and here's a biscuit for you."

When Foyle returned, he found his wife extremely chipper and apparently well cared-for, which softened him up a tad after his hard-nosed altercation with Starkey—his second to-date. The first, and worst, had been the week before Christmas, and he hadn't finished with Starkey yet. Foyle was not about to tolerate disloyalty from subordinates, irrespective of the influential connections they might have.

He hauled himself away from stressful thoughts. "Ready then, Sam?"

"Swimming in tea, actually," she beamed, sliding the novel into her shoulder-bag. "Hold on. I must just thank the lads."

_Thank? The lads?_ Incredulous, Foyle watched his wife assemble her belongings, then stood aside to let her pass. As he watched Sam bounce up to the front desk, his face was set in stony silence and his teeth sought out a chunk of inside cheek.

"Holly!" Sam called brightly, lifting one foot off the ground to lean over the desk. "I'm going now. See you next time. Thanks for tea, and things."

_Holly? _Foyle winced, then blinked, unwilling to accept this evidence of camaraderie. His own session with Starkey had been the very devil. Not that Sam was party to the reason why he was displeased with anyone at Eastbourne—he'd kept his own counsel on the substance of the Parkins confrontation—but this development showed all the signs of undermining his tough stance with Starkey's lot.

Hollyoak appeared from the back office, with a lively smile. "You're welcome, Mrs Foyle. Drive carefully, now." The smile was wiped right off his face when he spotted the DCS. He drew himself up smartly. "Sir!"

Foyle appraised the young man coolly. His wife's unvexed—happy, even—demeanour, plus the evidence that she had been treated with courtesy and kindness, allowed him to grant the constable a curt, unsmiling nod before they left the station.

Temple, having observed the scene, concluded that it wasn't much, but certainly an improvement on the manner of the DCS's earlier greeting. He rested a hand on Holly's shoulder.

"Well, lad—looks as if a little sugar goes a long way. Long way further than a bucketful of bile."

Holly considered his sergeant's words. "I wasn't buttering her up, Sarge. I wanted her to have it."

Temple squeezed his shoulder. "Yeah. Who wouldn't? Easy to see what happened _there._" He nodded towards the departing Wolseley.

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

Hector the Hound again. Actually, although dogs were commonly used by the armed forces as early as The Great War, the idea of police dogs didn't really take off until after World War II. But Superintendent Reid had one of his bouncy new ideas, so who was I to argue? He's like a little boy when he gets inventive.

Back on the subject of erasing All Things German after The Great War, this problem of German associations was one that even the British Royal Family had to contend with, being thoroughly and undeniably Teutonic in its origins. In 1917 George V decided to "lose" the royal dynastic name, '_Saxe Coburg and Gotha'_, and stylehis family '_The House of_ _Windsor'_. At the same time, English nobility of the _Battenberg _linerendered their family name into its anglicised form, _Mountbatten_—late of Lord Louis, and, adoptively, of Prince Phillip, consort of our current queen. These days, to your average Brit, _Battenberg_ is just a type of cake.

Anyway, I digress from the doggy angle: 'German Shepherd' became 'Alsatian Wolf Dog', after Alsace on the Franco-German border. Presumably, they reasoned that, provided the dog at least had its front paws in France, it couldn't be thought bad. Eventually the name was contracted to 'Alsatian' because people felt nervous about owning wolves. *_Hello! All dogs—common ancestor!*_ The new name stuck until the UK joined The Common Market in the Seventies, by which time we were bosom friends with our German cousins again, and the breed-name of German Shepherd was rehabilitated amongst British kennel clubs. So, there ya go. Political correctness. It wasn't just the dogs that were barking.

I notice nobody felt it necessary to rename German measles. Funny, that.

…

More soon.

**GiuC**


	22. Chapter 22

**L'Aimant – Chapter 22**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

_Chapter 22: _The Foyles decamp to Tunbridge Wells to spend New Year with the Howards.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

During the war, all signposts were removed from British roads, to fox the enemy in the event of an invasion. To make things worse for people trying to get from A to B, most maps available for country locations in those days were of the complex Ordnance Survey variety, rather than the nice, clear road-maps to which we're now accustomed.

…

This chapter introduces the character of Alice Howard. In canon she doesn't exist, but _TartanLioness_ created Alice for her sweet romance _'The Truth Will Out'_. The name Alice, and the lady's elegance, as described by _TartanLioness_, stuck in my mind.

"Mannequin" was the usual 1940s term for a fashion model.

…

As always, _dancesabove _is keeping me on the straight and narrow ;o)

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_Hollyoak appeared from the back office, with a lively smile. "You're welcome, Mrs Foyle. Drive carefully, now." The smile was wiped right off his face when he spotted the DCS. He drew himself up smartly. "Sir!"_

_Foyle appraised the young man coolly. His wife's unvexed—happy, even—demeanour, plus the evidence that she had been treated with courtesy and kindness, allowed him to grant the constable a curt, unsmiling nod before they left the station. _

_Temple, having observed the scene, concluded that it wasn't much, but certainly an improvement on the manner of the DCS's earlier greeting. He rested a hand on Holly's shoulder. _

_"Well, lad—looks as if a little sugar goes a long way. Long way further than a bucketful of bile."_

_Holly considered his sergeant's words. "I wasn't buttering her up, Sarge. I wanted her to have it."_

_Temple squeezed his shoulder. "Yeah. Who wouldn't? Easy to see what happened __**there**__." He nodded towards the departing Wolseley._

* * *

**Chapter 22**

**Saturday, 30****th**** December, 1944**

"I'm rather nervous, Christopher. Will this New Year's bash be very grand?" Sam was fussing round the cases for their trip to see the Howards. "Fortunately," she went on, "Mummy did that thing she does and lent me evening clothes. Thank heavens for estate-sale elegance, and her eagle eye for bargains. There's precious little in the shops just now."

All their packing prior to leaving Lyminster on Tuesday had been done by Sam, and if Christopher had noticed the extra weight of clothes inside the suitcases when he lifted them, he'd said nothing at the time.

Nor did he make any comment now, continuing instead to gaze out of the bedroom window.

Sam pressed her point. "I'm worried that I shan't be up to scratch…" It was a gentle prompt to her husband, who'd seemed somewhat remote since yesterday—off in a world of his own.

"Would you like to see?" Sam administered yet another verbal nudge.

"You'll outshine the other ladies, no matter what you wear." Foyle turned and kissed her lightly on the forehead, then turned away, resuming his position by the window.

Sam frowned, suspecting—as it happened, correctly—that the compliment was a veiled dismissal. "So… you're not interested to see?"

Christopher sighed and quitted his reverie. "Always, Sam. Please show me."

His distraction and unease stemmed from the phone call to his office from Commander Howard the previous day. Charles' disembodied voice imparted news that came as severe shock: _"…and now, of course, since Andrew's joining us virtually straight from the landing strip, it'll be a full family celebration—make up properly for our absence at the wedding..."_

Foyle had blinked. _Andrew?_ _Andrew _was in the country for New Year, and planning to turn up at his uncle's? Without a letter or a word? Not even calling in at home first? What the blazes was he playing at? Foyle's seething annoyance had subsided, to some degree, over the hours that followed his brother-in-law's revelation, but even now, the following day, his mood was not of the best.

For which reason, the lilac crêpe de Chine confection Sam now draped across the bed in front of him registered only vaguely. But his mouth—_Yes, very lovely, Sam—_ was making all the right appreciative noises, wasn't it?_ At any rate, sufficient to appease Samantha._ Or so he thought.

"All right. Enough," Sam interrupted him. "I smell a rat. What is it you aren't telling me?" She stood, arms folded, and fixed him with a penetrating stare. "I shall get it out of you eventually," she warned, "just as I did the Eastbourne/Parkins affair. You are _so_ buttoned-up, clamped-shut and winkle-like, I'm quite prepared to get a _great_ big pin and..."

"Andrew will be there." Christopher's words stalled her, mid-flow. There was no point attempting to fob Sam off. She would find out in the next few hours, anyway.

"He's written? Andrew's written… and you didn't tell me?"

"No. There's been no letter. Not that _I've_ received, at any rate. He's written to his Uncle Charles."

"To spite you." Sam bit her lip, wrestling with the angry realisation that Andrew had frozen his father out of his plans.

Foyle was silent for a moment. Then he offered, mildly, "You don't know that for certain. Letters go astray in wartime."

Sam humphed, and mentally appended one fresh item to Andrew's growing list of offences against his father. Her eyes began to prick with tears of disappointment. _You blessed horror, Andrew. And to think I ever counted you a friend._

Foyle slumped down on the bed beside Sam's crêpe de Chine, reaching wearily for her hand. "This is not for you to deal with. I shall put him straight over the weekend."

Sam's heart constricted in her chest. _Put him straight! I'll give him 'straight'! _She brought her husband's hand up to her face, and pressed her cheek against his fingers. "Yes, I know," she told him softly. "You'll put him straight, my darling. Of course you will."

* * *

Royal Tunbridge Wells promised to be a new experience for Sam. She had never got around to visiting it before the war, and since The Blitz, the town had become so swollen with refugees from London that housing and accommodation were stretched to the very limit. To make things worse, although Tunbridge Wells was not itself a German target, Jerry bombers that had strayed from their objectives habitually dropped bombs upon it in a parting panic. As a result, many of the town's buildings had suffered direct hits, which made it quite impossible for casual visitors to find a place to stay.

Raids had slackened off in the past year, however, and the old English spa town now had something of the air of a survivor about it. Having battled bravely through the worst, it was in the process of pulling up its civic socks and sorting itself out again.

Sam squinted through the train windows as they passed through town, but it was half past four, already growing dark, and therefore getting difficult to see.

When Foyle and Sam alighted at High Brooms station, slightly north of Tunbridge Wells, they weren't particularly tired. This was a well-served direct line from Hastings, and their journey up from the coast had been a smooth, if somewhat chilly, one. Sam had spent most of the journey with her knees shrouded in a tartan rug, and once their compartment had emptied of other passengers, Christopher had finally yielded to persuasion and joined her underneath it, gathering her against him. At that point, he thanked his lucky stars that lipstick was in short supply, and Sam was saving hers for later, to impress the Howards. That way, there was no incriminating evidence around his face and collar when they left the train.

Charles Howard had arranged to have his driver pick them up outside the station and bring them to his home a few miles further east, in Pembury. Sure enough, Foyle and Sam only had to wait a few short minutes before a well-polished Riley pulled up before them at the station entrance.

The uniformed cherub who climbed out of the driver's seat and waved a cheery greeting made Samantha blush in recognition. Without a doubt, she mused self-consciously, this girl—with the exception of her striking ebony curls—was a younger, perkier version of herself.

Christopher was visibly amused, to the extent that Sam felt obliged to administer a subtle dig to his ribs. "_Don't _even _think_ of passing comment," she admonished him in a sharp whisper. "I am well ahead of you."

The cherub launched into a stream of greeting. "Hullo, I'm Georgie Rose. How are you? I'm on the dot, I hope! Quite the old adventure getting here! These country lanes are a perfect maze, and all the signposts have been snaffled. I ask you! As if Hitler's going to give a darn which way _anywhere_ is from _Pembury._ I thought at one point I was lost, and had to use a compass to reorient myself. But, well, here I am, so no harm done, I s'pose!"

Foyle raised his hat. "Miss Rose? How do you do? This is my wife, Samantha—also with the MTC."

"How do you do. Please call me Georgie. And I _know_. That's marvellous. Commander Howard told me. May I call you 'Sam'? We shall have so much to talk about. The map's still on the passenger seat. I expect you're good at reading OS maps. I've got a torch. And if you can manage to read the route while I drive, we'll have a better chance of getting back to Pembury quick-smart. I do so _love_ a challenge!"

Sam took a breath on Georgie's behalf, and glanced at Christopher, sucking in her cheeks to stifle the amusement threatening to spread across her face. "Well, I'd be very pleased to help. I'll try my best. Christopher, would you mind sitting in the back?"

"Not at all," he smirked. "The view from there will be extremely interesting."

"Your husband's funny," whispered Georgie in Sam's ear. "It's impossible to see a thing at night on country lanes."

"I, er, think he means _us_, Georgie. He is going to sit in the back and we're the view. He'll find it very funny if we lose our way with two of us on duty."

"Oh _I_ see!" giggled Georgie, seeing. "We're the entertainment. Well, _I _don't mind. I should love to see a pair of blokes do any better in the middle of the English countryside, without so much as a milestone, and no lights to speak of." She opened the back door for Foyle and gave him a cheeky salute. "You wouldn't like to bet ten bob on getting lost, would you, Sir? You'd lose, and I don't half fancy some shoes I saw in Tunbridge Wells on the way here. Nine and sixpence. Red wedge-heels. With bows. A ten-bob win would cover things nicely."

"Mmmunfortunately I'd have to arrest you, _and_ myself, I'm afraid."

"For illegal rambling," quipped Sam, mischievously, in Christopher's ear.

"Sorry?" Georgie's ears were sharp as tacks. "Don't you mean 'gambling'?"

"Yes. She does, indeed," Foyle grinned, as he climbed into the back seat. "But that's not always what she types."

"Oh, well. So much for my ten bob," sighed Georgie. "Sam, have you ever driven a Riley?"

"Just another sort of Morris, isn't it? Ours is a Wolseley. But I wouldn't mind a spin in yours, in daylight."

"Top hole. So…! Is that the lot for cases? Just the two? Hop in then, and we'll be off. Fingers crossed in the back seat!"

* * *

Charles Howard's Pembury home was an impressive white stuccoed mansion overlooking the village green. It had about it the confident air of family entailment, which suddenly made clear to Sam that, as this ancestral pile now belonged to Rosalind's brother, Rosalind must therefore have come from money.

And _to_… what? When Rosalind and Christopher married, he would have been a young man, recently back from war, and starting his police career—with none of the financial security nor status he had since acquired. And yet, apparently in spite of this, Rosalind had chosen him, and left behind a life of obvious wealth and comfort to carve a new, more modest niche, with Christopher.

Sam didn't need to ask herself what qualities had won him Rosalind. They were the self-same attributes that had attracted her. And so she sent her tacit thanks to Christopher's late wife, for loving him before she herself was of an age to do so, and made a silent vow to cherish and protect the heart now entrusted to her keeping.

Assailed by all these complex thoughts, Sam's mind was heavily preoccupied as she followed Georgie up the path. Hence she was a little startled when the imposing mahogany front door suddenly swung open to reveal her host.

Charles Howard was a tall, distinguished-looking man with kindly eyes and a shock of wavy steel-grey hair. His greeting—though he had never met Samantha in the flesh before—was reassuringly expansive.

"Christopher! Samantha! Been watching for you! Glad you're here at last. Well _done_, Georgie. Absolutely confident you'd get them here to us intact, of course."

Georgie, glowing visibly from the praise, saluted her boss, then took her leave to head off to her billet. She'd explained to Sam en route that, due to the volume of expected guests, Commander Howard had found her accommodation at the Camden Arms, about five minutes' walk from the house. "But I'm invited to lunch tomorrow, and also to the New Year's Eve party. I'll see you there, all dolled-up, I suppose. My frock's a parachute confection, so I 'spect I'll look as if I've been dropped from a great height," she joked. "But I don't mind."

"I'll lend you bits and bobs," Sam offered. "My mother's a positive treasure trove for that sort of thing. Come upstairs tomorrow after lunch, and I'll kit you out."

Standing now in the rather grand, panelled entrance hall, Sam looked up at Commander Howard a little shyly. He was, after all, Rosalind's brother. What did he make of Christopher's remarriage?

Charles didn't leave Sam guessing long. She reached out her hand to take his outstretched one, but instead of shaking it, as she'd expected, Commander Howard raised her fingers to his lips. As he did so, his eyes were trained upon her husband.

"About time, Christopher. Alice and I were starting to despair of your ever coming out of purdah." He met Samantha's gaze. "Welcome to our home, my dear. Ridiculously pleased to see you. A thousand thanks to you for putting a smile back on his face."

Indeed, as Sam turned her head to look warmly back at Christopher, his expression was the closest approximation of a beaming smile she'd ever seen him manage.

A light clack of heels across the entrance hall announced the approach of Charles' wife. Alice Howard was a woman in her late forties with the tall and willowy figure of a mannequin; dark hair streaked with grey, upswept into an elegant chignon; and carefully manicured hands that somehow contrived to have escaped the rigours of The War Effort. Sam quietly wondered how Alice Howard spent her time. Clearly not on housework. To judge from the size of the house, there had to be a local woman coming in. And quite likely a gardener, too—though perhaps not at this time of year.

Alice made a beeline for Samantha and bent—indeed, she _had_ to bend—to kiss Sam on the cheek. "Hello, I'm Alice. I wish we could have managed to come to the wedding. I hope you'll make some time to tell me how it went."

As they exchanged greetings with the Howards, Foyle became aware of a figure hovering in the shadows on the landing.

_Andrew._

The loitering figure shifted, and Andrew made his way slowly down the wide, curved staircase, one hand in his pocket, the other running tentatively down the polished banister. A lock of dark hair had fallen loose and now curled over his forehead, which furrowed slightly with the expression suspended halfway between discomfort and determination.

Charles was the first to acknowledge him. "Ah! Here he is! The prodigal nephew. Always turns up in time to collect his seasonal fiver."

Andrew grinned, and answered softly, "You know me, Uncle Charlie. Never one to pass up on the chance of pocket money and a decent spread."

"We shall do our best this weekend, Andrew." Alice sought to qualify his expectations. "Mrs Allingham's the best cook for miles around, but even she might struggle with the ingredients at our disposal. One of you," she looked at each of the three men in turn, "might have to venture abroad and shoot the odd rabbit."

"Here to serve, my dear," Charles grinned at the assembled company. "I'll break out the old blunderbuss and give you bunnies by the dozen."

Sam sized up Andrew's face and figure. Rather more gaunt than she remembered him from their last meeting. Darker round the jawline. The boyish bloom had left him, and his usual swagger had given way to a subdued demeanour, bordering on sadness.

Painfully aware that they were under the Howards' scrutiny, Foyle extended his hand to his son, regarding him steadily. "Good to see you, Andrew."

Andrew shook it. "Dad. Been a while."

Foyle blinked, unsmiling. "Yes, well,"—he rested a hand on his wife's shoulder—"ideal occasion to catch up, then."

Giving a tightly measured smile, Sam allowed Andrew to peck her on the cheek and offer a subdued "Congratulations, Sam."

Alice's shrewd eyes observed the somewhat stilted exchange. She turned to Foyle. "Christopher, how would it be if I showed Sam the room where you'll be staying? While you and Andrew do a bit of catching-up?"

Sam looked for reassurance from her husband that she should go with Alice. "Christopher—do you mind? Is that all right?" She glanced between her husband and his son.

Foyle smiled and nodded. "Go on, Darling. I'm sure Alice has a lot she'd like to show you."

Andrew's cheeks caught fire at the endearment. Could this situation be any more strange? Mutely, he watched Sam and Alice ascend the stairs, feeling like a foreigner in his own family.

Without prompting, Charles had already taken charge of the cases and gone upstairs ahead of the women. Which left Andrew standing in the cavernous entrance hall across from his father.

Foyle broke the silence first.

"So. You, um, didn't see fit to let me know you were coming home for New Year?"

Andrew had the grace to look ashamed. "I… thought you'd probably bin the letter without reading it… after—you know—the last one."

His father regarded him evenly. "Wrong. I'll always read your letters. _Then_ decide if they belong in the bin."

"Is that where the last one finished up?"

"What do _you_ think?" Foyle's tone was steady. "Hardly going to frame it, was I?"

Andrew grimaced. "If… it helps at all, I regret some of the things I said."

"Right. Some of them. I see. Limited thanks for that, then."

"Dad, I—"

"'F'it's all the same to you, we'll speak about this later. Middle of the hallway, not the most private place. Meanwhile, I'd appreciate your not saying anything to upset Sam. This is not her fault. I won't tolerate any behaviour towards her that falls short of perfect politeness. Understood?"

Andrew, having read the fiery look in Sam's eye as he pecked her on the cheek, wasn't sure he'd be in charge of how things panned out, once they got together. "How much does she know?" he hedged.

"She knows you're not pleased."

"Fine." Andrew sighed and rubbed his nose. "She's probably going to kill me, then."

"Mmmm_Bit _strong. Don't bank on coming out of it with both of them still attached, though."

"I see," Andrew winced. "But _I _mustn't upset _her_?"

"Nnnup." Foyle parked his tongue behind his teeth and widened his eyes at his son.

* * *

Dinner ended around half past eight, and while Alice disappeared to discuss preparations for the New Year's party with Mrs Allingham, Charles was eager to drag Christopher off into his study—"I've got a problem, Christopher, and I'd appreciate the application of a first-rate mind…"

Christopher cast Sam a "May I?" look before he even attempted to rise and leave with Charles, and she mouthed, "Of course."

Which left Andrew. In the room. Alone with Sam. They waited for the door to close.

"Andrew, you perfect horror!" Sam hissed, once she was sure they weren't being overheard. "You upset your father badly with that awful letter. Not to mention me."

Andrew's look of discomfort bordered on alarm. "You _saw_ the letter? He _showed you_ the letter?"

"He did not. I found it by accident. And read it."

"Read it _by accident_?" Andrew's tone was sardonic.

"Don't imagine you sound clever. I read it deliberately. And a jolly good thing I did, too. Hope you're proud of yourself. He is _so_ hurt—not that he'll let you see that."

Andrew plunged his hands into his pockets and kicked at the carpet. "Sam. I'm… sorry. It was such a bloody shock, and I was under stress. I'll apologise to him as soon as he lets me. I… honestly, I… you both mean…" He sighed. "It's just… I wonder if you realise what damage you've done, by marrying him. And as for Dad? He should know better."

Sam rediscovered just how snotty she could get when roused. "Don't patronise me, Andrew. I'm your peer." _In age. _She wanted to add, 'and your superior in emotional maturity and common sense', but curbed her tongue at the last minute_._ "There's a world of difference between whatever horrid picture you've painted for yourself about our marriage, and the real truth of things. More importantly, _you_ should know better than to doubt your father's judgement."

"Disagree," Andrew argued. "Dad must have realised how you felt about him. He shouldn't have given in."

Sam's annoyance rocketed. "_'Given in'_? What am I? Some sort of khaki-tunicked Mata Hari?"

Andrew shook his head. "No. Not at all the image I had in my mind. In _your_ case, I think it's more akin to imprinting in ducks."

"Pardon? _What_ did you just say?"

If Andrew had had the nerve to look at her eyes, he would have seen that it was time to retreat. Unfortunately, he missed the signs and carried on: "You know… when ducklings hatch, they follow the first thing they see…"

That was enough for Sam. She rose and hit him round the head with the nearest cushion—which, unbeknown to her, happened to be stuffed with duck-down—and headed for the door.

Andrew recovered himself sufficiently from the soft onslaught to grab her by the wrist. "Look, Sam"—his expression was somewhere between pleading and exasperation—"I've already seen him devastated once, after my mother died. I don't want to see that happening a second time. He's not as young as he was…"

She shook him off. "You think I'm not a fit person to take care of his heart?" Tears sprang to her eyes. "Andrew, I loved your father from the word go. Oh, I would have made do with a working friendship if that was all he felt he could give me. But if he'd met somebody else, it would have broken me. I couldn't have borne that. And that's how I've come to realise that I loved him all along. Not a single _one_ of the boys—the young men—I walked out with _ever_ had the same effect as being with your father."

She allowed that home truth to sink in, half expecting that Andrew would challenge her about their own brief relationship. His silence, to his credit, encouraged her to carry on. "Why can't you be happy for us?" Sam pleaded, verging on tears.

Andrew slid his hands into his pockets. "Because… I don't want people thinking him a fool."

Sam gaped at him, indignant. "You think I'm about to make your father look ridiculous? How then, exactly?"

"Because my fear is… " Andrew shrugged. "Look… wake up. It's inevitable. You'll leave him in a few years' time."

Sam's blood ran cold. "Explain yourself. Smartly. Before I hit you jolly hard, with something other than a cushion... " She cast around for a convenient weapon. A silver candelabrum looked attractive. Although she didn't reach for it, her hands balled into tight fists at her sides.

Andrew looked somewhat abashed, but he clung on to his argument. "Look. The hero-worship phase will soon wear off. You'll dump him for a younger man to have a family," he told her simply.

Sam's laugh, when it emerged, was harsh, and bordered on the cruel. "Is _that_ your best shot, really? _That's _your reason?"

"Pretty much the size of it, I'm sad to say."

"You wouldn't deign to give me the benefit of the doubt, by any chance?"

"That's not the point. I quite believe that you're sincere, and that you _think_ you're in love with him _now_. But eventually you'll leave him anyway. Young women want families. It's a fact of life."

Sam fumed. "In that case, I hope _you're _being honourable and warning _your _young women not to waste their time on _you._ Because_ you're_ about as likely to settle down and have a family as a stray tomcat."

Andrew squirmed at the jibe. "Listen, I'm sorry I ditched you, Sam. It was a difficult time… my head was all over the place."

"Oh-ho! The conceit of you! You imagine that I took up with your father on the rebound after you moved on? Well, for your information, for most of our time together I felt more like your mother anyway, so _naturally_"—her tone was heavily sarcastic—"marrying your _father _was the next logical step." She stretched her eyes wide in challenge.

Andrew looked discomfited, but kept his voice in check, not rising to the bait. "Not really what I meant. On the whole," he continued, "I think you're missing the point. Women want the_ choice_ to have a family. They pick husbands who can give them children. Dad is an admirable man. If he were, say, fifteen years younger, he'd be perfect for you. But he's nearly bloody fifty! Jesus, Sam!"

The penny dropped. Andrew thought his father was impotent. Or infertile. Or both.

For the briefest moment, Sam considered taking a leaf out of her mother's book and putting her stepson out of his misery. _Don't worry, Andrew: I was already eight weeks pregnant by your father when we tied the knot; we've been copulating vigorously since Day One; your father is a skilful and energetic lover, and I fully expect to kill him in the throes of passion when our children are already bringing up families of their own. _She opened her mouth to speak this frank blend of truth and prognosis, then closed it again. It wouldn't have been loyal or fair to Christopher.

Instead, she bit her tongue and opted for conciliation. "I'm very sad you feel this way, Andrew. Because I wouldn't leave your father under any circumstances. Whatever your theories, I chose him for himself, not for his breeding potential." _Although, as it turns out, his aim is pretty hole-in-one_.

Andrew stared at the carpet. "I just don't want him hurt, or making a fool of himself."

"Well, thanks awfully, Andrew, for that rousing vote of confidence. It's just beyond silly that you're punishing us both for… what? For my imaginary desertion of him at some unspecified future date. Truly mature. And reasonable."

There were footsteps in the entrance hall. Somebody—from the clack of heels it had to be Aunt Alice—was coming back to join them.

Sam hissed again, "Now if you don't mind, I should like us to at least try to be civil in front of the others. All this airing of dirty linen is jolly awful. If _anything_ is guaranteed to humiliate your father, it's us two arguing at a family gathering."

"You started it," he mumbled.

"_You_ started it by writing _that_ letter."

"_You_ started it by marrying him."

"_You… _" But Sam was out of time. The footsteps halted and the door began to open.

* * *

**Sunday, 31****st**** December 1944 **

"Your husband is spectacularly charming." Georgie rested her face on her hand and mooned. She and Sam were enjoying a quiet drink before lunch. "I wish I had a boyfriend. All the men I meet around Commander Howard are married—if you could call it 'meet'—they mostly just look straight through me anyway, or tell me to 'carry on, Miss Rose'. Well I _am _carrying on, but I wouldn't half enjoy the opportunity to climb down orf the shelf and carry on _with_ somebody."

Sam's heart went out to Georgie. Pickings were indeed lean, as her old MTC friends Beryl and Betty were apt to complain. Considering the heartfelt sigh heaved by Georgina, it crossed Sam's mind she might have underestimated her new friend's age. "How old _are_ you, Georgie, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Twenty. Awfully old. It's as if, the minute I reached an interesting age, the country emptied itself of men. Just my rotten luck that there's a war on."

Sam kept a tight rein on her facial muscles, which were threatening to betray intense amusement. "First of all," she consoled, "the war can't go on for ever, and secondly I think, at twenty, you've got a _bit_ of time before you have to resign yourself to a life of solitude."

She gave Georgina a carefully appraising look, then glanced around the room. Sam wondered idly whether Andrew had stopped sulking since their previous evening's altercation and come down to join the luncheon party. After several minutes, she spotted him through the open double doors that led into the entrance hall, deep in conversation with his aunt.

"What would you say to a fighter pilot?" she asked her young companion, half-absently.

"I'd say 'ra-ther!' if you had one," mumbled Georgie into the hand still supporting her chin. "But it's cruel to tease."

Suddenly, she lifted her head from her hand and brightened, alerted by Sam's serious expression. "You _aren't_ teasing, are you? I _did_ rather wonder whose the roadster was, parked round the back of the house… "

Sam nodded towards the couple still conversing in the hallway. "Christopher's son, Andrew. He's a flyboy. Squadron leader."

Georgie took a quick look and her eyes lit up. "Chocks away! He's gorgeous."

"Hmm," agreed Sam. "Foyle men tend to be. Trouble with Andrew is, he's spent too much time in the air. What he needs is someone to anchor him firmly to the ground."

Georgie latched on to the challenge. "Father taught me how to fly kites when I was eight," she declared. "We flew them in the castle grounds at Arundel. And I'm proud to say I've never lost a single one."

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

A chock is a wooden block placed under the wheel of a stationary aeroplane to stop it moving when the engine is running. "Chocks away" is the command to remove the blocks and enable takeoff.

…

More soon.

**GiuC**


	23. Chapter 23

**L'Aimant – Chapter 23**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

_Chapter 23: _Aunt Alice tackles Andrew prior to the New Year's 'do'. Andrew receives crash-course in The Ways of Love from various quarters.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

First-footing is a New Year's tradition of Scottish origin, whereby a dark-haired man brings good luck to the household by being the first to cross the threshold in the new year, usually with a gift of food or fuel.

…

'Crabfat' is Royal Naval slang for RAF personnel (for instance, "Crimson Crabfats" is navy-speak for the RAF's Red Arrows aerobatics team). The origin of the term derives from the colour of gun-shell grease used by the navy, which happens to be the same blue as air-force uniforms. The grease was also used to treat pubic lice ('crabs') picked up by naval personnel in brothels overseas.

…

Born in 1877, Dame Laura Knight, DBE, RA, was a pioneering painter of women, and, by the 1940s, a veteran artist in the realist tradition. We meet her briefly at the end this chapter—but I promise more of her in Chapter 24. She has business with the girls.

…

This chapter is for _dances_, who cajoles me, in that airily wise, but insistent way she has, to write it and re-write it till it's right.

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_ "What would you say to a fighter pilot?" [Sam] asked her young companion, half-absently._

_"I'd say 'ra-__**ther**__!' if you had one," mumbled Georgie into the hand still supporting her chin. "But it's cruel to tease." _

_Suddenly, she lifted her head from her hand and brightened, alerted by Sam's serious expression. "You __**aren't**__ teasing, are you? I __**did**__ rather wonder whose the roadster was, parked round the back of the house… "_

_Sam nodded towards the couple still conversing in the hallway. "Christopher's son, Andrew. He's a flyboy. Squadron leader."_

_Georgie took a quick look and her eyes lit up. "Chocks away! He's gorgeous." _

_"Hmm," agreed Sam. "Foyle men tend to be. Trouble with Andrew is, he's spent too much time in the air. What he needs is someone to anchor him firmly to the ground."_

_Georgie latched on to the challenge. "Father taught me how to fly kites when I was eight," she declared. "We flew them in the castle grounds at Arundel. And I'm proud to say I've never lost a single one."_

* * *

**Chapter 23**

**Lunchtime, Sunday, 31****st**** December 1944**

Alice Howard was well-schooled in Andrew-watching. With no children of her own, her interest had settled on her nephew early in his life, and Andrew had spent many a childhood summer holiday with her and Charles. This habit had continued well into adolescence, after his mother's death, and though the circumstances of recent years had rendered Alice's contact with her nephew sporadic, years of practised observation had attuned her to his every nuance of expression. Now, in Alice's expert opinion, _something was not right._

With her luncheon guests all safely socialising in the salon, and Mrs Allingham busy in the kitchen, Alice Howard reasoned it was time to broach the awkward subject with her nephew. She fixed him with her almond eyes, then pounced, lacing an arm through his and drawing him to one side in the entrance hall. This she did with the consummate skill of a seasoned hostess, accustomed to conducting confidential business in a household teeming with visitors.

"I know a long face when I see it, Dear Heart." She spoke in a low sing-song tone, a gay smile lighting up her face for the benefit of casual observers. "And yesterday evening, yours was one of the longest I've seen in quite some time—even allowing for this wretched war."

Andrew gave a faint wince, but conceded nothing, so she pressed him further. "Nor was your father exactly brimming with joy at your reunion—what would _pass_ for joy with Christopher, at least. What's going on between you two? Hmm?"

Andrew's long experience around his aunt had taught him the pointlessness of pretending. First he stared at his feet, then peered guiltily sideways at her. "Was it really _that _obvious, Auntie Al?"

Alice nodded. "To me, yes. Now, Uncle Charles," she confided, "was so excited at having Christopher round to play, he wasn't paying adequate attention. But it _was_ obvious to _me_." She paused. "Not that it's my business, but in times like these, one can't afford to fall out with one's nearest and dearest." She studied her nephew carefully. "I'd hazard a guess that this involves Samantha."

The speed at which her nephew's startled eyes met hers told her everything she needed to know.

"Andrew," she admonished evenly, "you must _not_ interfere in their marriage. It would be nothing short of a disaster if you did."

Her nephew's brows contracted. "Well, Alice, it just so happens _I _think the disaster has already happened." He shuffled uncomfortably, avoiding her eyes.

"You don't like Samantha?"

"On the contrary," he shrugged. "She's one of the nicest girls I know. I even went out with her for a while—"

"Ah-hah!" Alice's triumphant look warned Andrew she was well wide of the mark. He shook his head.

"No. Not what you're thinking, Auntie Al. It was… sort of… half-hearted between us. Never went beyond fondness, somehow. And I was the one who broke it off."

Andrew paused to review his past motives with Sam, and to muse on hers with him. _I was at a loose end. Sam's upbeat good sense appealed to me, and Dad more or less pushed us together, anyway. It's a fair bet, from what she told me last night, she was just trying to please him—or else accepting the closest thing to him on offer._

"So what _is_ the problem, Dear Heart?" Alice squeezed his arm. "Tell your Auntie Al."

Another sideways glance from Andrew betrayed his embarrassment. "Well, for starters, she's going to be disillusioned when she realises they can't have a family." He reached into his pocket and withdrew an open pack of Dunhills. Slotting a cigarette between his lips, he lit it, drawing deeply on the smoke. "And when she leaves Dad because of that, it will break him."

Alice felt a twinge of sorrow in her chest, but her smile never faltered. "Dear Heart, not every marriage is blessed with children. But that doesn't have to mean it's an unhappy one that ends in separation."

Andrew felt his colour rise. _Idiot, Foyle. Bloody hell._ He hastily removed the cigarette, and held it, parked between the third and fourth fingers of his left hand, reaching up to touch his furrowed brow. "Aw. Auntie Al—me and my big mouth—I'm _so sorry_…"

"Nonono! It's all right. Listen… something you need to realise about your uncle and me: we tried for many years, and hoped. But in the end, far from driving us apart, the lack of children brought us closer. Because we knew for certain that we'd only ever have each other."

Andrew closed his eyes, acknowledging the poignancy of what she'd told him. "But…you see…this is different. Dad's nearly twice Samantha's age, so he won't even be able to… "

"Uncle Charles has _four years_ on your father. He would be amused to hear you speak this way." Alice raised an eyebrow to accompany her hostess-smile, and allowed the message to sink in.

"Aw. Auntie Al…" Andrew squirmed and took another drag on his cigarette.

Alice's laughter tinkled in the empty hallway. "Andrew. Life slows down in middle age, but it doesn't stop. Not every field of human activity requires the speed and razor-sharp reactions of a fighter pilot."

Andrew winced, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I wish I shared your confidence and optimism in this particular case."

Alice reached across and deftly plucked the cigarette from Andrew's fingers, stealing a puff. "I blame the war for making you worry unnecessarily—you young men are forced to live life at an unnaturally energetic pace. If they love each other, they'll adjust to each other's… well… each other's rhythms."

"Put that way, you make it sound so simple. Would that it were." Andrew took back possession of the proffered cigarette.

"Promise me you'll give them a chance, Dear. They look so comfortable together."

"I think she'll _tire_ of 'comfortable'. Girls of Sam's age don't exactly pine for pipe-and-slippers comfort."

"Is _that_ how you choose to characterise this stage of your father's life, Andrew?"

"Auntie Al, he fishes, has a quiet drink and ponders his police work. He takes life slowly. Sam… well, look at her! She's full of beans. How well do you think things are going to work out, once she comes to her senses?"

Alice moved round to face her nephew, turning her back on the salon—a position that allowed her to drop the public smile. She took his free hand in her own. "Andrew… your measured, quiet, pensive father has just married a spirited young woman half his age, and she is looking very happy. Those facts speak for themselves. If I were you, I'd take a little time to observe the situation."

A grudging smile crept across Andrew's lips. "You mean, identify the nature of the target? I shouldn't simply treat it like a bandit and shoot it out of the sky?"

His aunt chuckled. "I mean: Keep it in your sights, but let it fly." She squeezed his hand. "Now _will_ you be a good boy, and play nicely with the other guests?"

Sighing, Andrew stubbed out the remains of his cigarette in an alabaster ashtray on the hall table. "I could certainly use a snifter." He lifted his eyes and glanced nonchalantly across into the salon. "So, who's the ebony-haired angel with Samantha?"

_Ebony-haired angel? _Aunt Alice cocked an eyebrow at her nephew. "You really ought to try your hand at poetry, Dear Heart. The eye-catching young lady is Georgina Rose. She drives your uncle. _If _you behave, I'll introduce you in flattering terms. But if you _don't…_"

"I'll be charm and affability itself, Aunt Alice," he grinned. "Lead on."

* * *

Seeing Andrew and his aunt approach the corner she was sharing with Georgina, Samantha whispered to her companion, "He's coming over now. He's really very nice." _When he's not being an utter prat_, she added silently.

Alice beamed down at her young lady guests. "Sam, I just wanted to introduce Andrew to Georgina. Georgie, this is Mr Foyle's son, and my beloved nephew, Squadron Leader Andrew Foyle. Andrew, Miss Georgina Rose—your uncle's new _chauffeuse_."

"Delighted to meet you, Miss Rose." Andrew's impish movie-star grin made its first appearance of the weekend so far, as he extended his hand.

"Please call me Georgie. Everybody does." Georgina's answering smile created dimples halfway up her cheeks, making her look for all the world like Jennifer Jones, fresh from _'The Song of Bernadette'_. "So you fly? What? Spitfires?"

"Mostly." Andrew's grin persisted. "But on the ground, my passion is for motorbikes."

"Oh—the roadster isn't yours?" Georgie looked slightly disappointed, though her dimples never faltered.

"Well, it _is_ for now. I've borrowed it until I have to report back for duty in a week. Would you care to have a go? I hear you drive my uncle…"

"Mmm. A Riley. Nothing as fancy as a roadster. But I _love_ fast cars."

"Tomorrow, then, we'll go for a spin_—_once the weather's warmed up a bit."

Sam chipped in. "You could wait all day for that to happen. Anyway, Andrew, you can have my chair; I need to go and speak to Christopher."

"Well then," smiled Alice, clasping her hands together. "Shall I leave you young persons to it? Mrs Allingham will doubtless need to see me about arrangements before luncheon is served."

"Yes, thank you, Auntie Al." Andrew slid seamlessly into Sam's seat as she vacated it. His eyes never left Georgina's. "How's the job going, then, Georgie? Is Uncle Charlie making you burn some rubber for the war effort?"

_Par for the course_,Sam huffed to herself as she made her way across the room to join her husband. _All moral indignation one minute, and completely pecker-led the next. I wish I'd hit him with that candlestick-thing yesterday when he got my dander up. __**Now**__, I wouldn't even waste the energy._

* * *

**Early hours of Monday, 1****st**** January, 1945**

In the grand reception room of the Howards' Georgian mansion, with the _Auld Lang Synes _behind them, Sam and Foyle stood face-to-face, cradling coupes of champagne.

A happy, slightly drowsy, smile illuminated Sam's face as she raised her glass for the umpteenth time that evening. This time she had strayed from modest apple juice and felt the guilty tickle of champagne-bubbles under her nose. "Happy New Year, my darling. Something better is coming this year, I can feel it."

"Is that so?" Christopher glanced carefully to one side, as if to check for observers. "I'd say it had already arrived." He cupped her chin and brushed his lips over hers with a studied tenderness that somehow promised more, without overstepping the boundaries of a public embrace.

The combination of veiled passion and champagne set Sam's cheeks aflame. She looked shyly down, then closed her eyes. For a second or two, she felt a little dizzy, and longed for her bed.

"I, um, think I should go and powder my nose. But before I do, I just have to tell you something…"

"Hmm? Sweetheart?"

"You are… effortlessly gorgeous." Sam raised her eyes and looked deep into her husband's blue-grey eyes. "I consider myself to be the luckiest woman in the world."

With that, she pecked him on the lips and moved off towards the door, trailing her hand along his arm as she left.

Christopher tilted his head and smiled quietly to himself, twisting his lips as he savoured the compliment and everything it promised to him. He still was diffidently relishing Sam's parting words when he felt a hand on his shoulder. The hand belonged to Andrew.

"Happy New Year, Dad. Spare a minute?"

"Mmmaybe." With leisurely precision, Foyle placed his champagne coupe on a nearby table. Although the wine glass was identical from all angles, Foyle twisted it in situ, taking his time until he was completely satisfied with its orientation. Then he pushed both hands into the pockets of his dinner suit and turned to regard his son. "What can I do for you?" Foyle's chin lifted as he spoke.

"Can we, er, talk?" Andrew sank his hands into his pockets, emulating his father's stance, but his gaze was lowered and apologetic.

Foyle inclined his head. "Entirely fine with me." He followed his son through the crowd of guests and across the hall into the drawing room.

Closing the door behind them, Andrew moved to stand before the marble mantelpiece, nervously tracing his eyebrow with one finger.

"I, er… Aunt Alice thinks, um…" He paused, and raised his eyes to meet his father's. "Dad, I've been a total arse."

"'Deed you have." Foyle widened his eyes to reinforce the observation.

"I should've kept my mouth shut. For all I know, you'll suit each other very well."

"Oh? Thanks for that. How come?"

"Well, some women do very well without having a family, don't they? And Sam is obviously _fond _of you, so…"

"Fond. Right. Sam and I won't be having a family, then?"

"Well, er. Not very likely, is it?"

Foyle stretched his eyes again. The amusement reached his lips. "Andrew, is this _actually _an apology, or… er… are we going to have another difference of opinion? Because… it's been a long day, Sam will be back soon, she's tired, and we'd _quite_ like to be off to bed."

Andrew shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Yes, er, sorry, Dad. It's an apology. I hope you'll both be very happy. It's none of my business."

"Andrew." Foyle sighed and scratched his ear, preparing to indulge his son. "If you want to make us your business, I can understand that—you're my son. You're doing this out of decent motives." In a trademark gesture, he lowered his open hand to underline the next point. "Look. No reason why you should know this? You've been away? Little opportunity to observe us? But…" Christopher frowned slightly and tilted his head, "Sam and I are very much in love. With one another. Believe that, and—ummm—shelve your prejudices a bit, annnd… we may surprise you. Sound all right to you?"

"If you say so, Dad."

"I _do_ say so. Now, it's bloody late—well past this old man's bedtime. We should draw a line under this, here. After a night's sleep, start the New Year on a better footing?"

"Fine. You bet."

Foyle received his son into his arms and patted him lightly on the back.

"You still owe Sam an apology," he added. "Any time tomorrow will do."

"Right: apologise to Sam tomorrow." Andrew winced over his father's shoulder, involuntarily tensing his pelvic floor. "You go on up, then. Think I'll just smoke a quick fag before I turn in."

* * *

Sam emerged a little wearily from the downstairs lavatory, smoothing down her crêpe de Chine. _I used to be better at late nights,_ she reflected. _Get so tired these days._ Retrieving her champagne coupe from the occasional table under the stairs where she'd parked it, she took an experimental sip, then set it down again. _Think I'll give the rest of this a miss…_

The oak panelling veered towards her, and Sam put out a hand to fend off the looming wooden wall. She leant on the table until the faintness passed, taking a moment to gather herself. From the grand reception side of the entrance hall, Sam was hidden from view, but she could easily hear the sound of feet ascending the stairs above her head, accompanied by women's voices.

"This new wife's a sweet child, but I can't imagine it will be the _grand amour _for him, this time around."

"Ah, yes, I well recall how smitten he was with Rosalind… and of course she gave him Andrew. Too late for Christopher to have a second family now. At his age, it's unlikely he'll be bothering this one much in the bedroom, charming though she is."

"Indeed. One must suppose that, after all these years alone, he's finally grown weary of looking after himself. Well, good for him. I _do _like Christopher. I hope that she's a competent cook, at least."

Sam straightened up, fists balled at her sides in impotent fury. _Come to dinner, why don't you? _she fumed silently. _I'll jolly well spit into the coq au vin. _

Her bravado was only momentary. The words had hurt sufficiently, in her tired and hormonal state, to transform her anger swiftly into tears.

Which was how Christopher found her half a minute later, moist-cheeked and slumped against the wall beneath the stairwell.

"Sweetheart. What…?" His brows puckered in concern, Foyle bent, hands hovering each side of her. "Sam?"

Andrew wandered from the drawing room in his father's wake, a lighted cigarette between his fingers. Although the corner underneath the stairwell was invisible from most angles in the hallway, a strategically hung mirror gave him an unexpected but clear glimpse of the business unfolding between his father and Samantha. The little he'd observed was already enough to confirm that the moment was a private one, and that witnesses wouldn't be welcome. Andrew retreated smartly back into the safety of the drawing room to finish off his fag.

However, curiosity immediately got the better of his scruples. From his position just inside the room, Andrew's ears were able to latch on to the muted exchange… and his eyes were drawn to the activity reflected in the mirror.

As he watched, Sam melted into his father's arms, weeping softly. "Christopher, they all think you've married me to do your cooking."

"Who do?"

"Ladies' voices. On the stairs." She wiped her eyes. "I heard them. They couldn't see me under here. And they think you _can't_ or _don't_… you know… as if you're some sort of old man in his dotage. I can't stand the beastly arrogance of them, and the injustice of it."

From his eavesdropping vantage point, Andrew guiltily acknowledged to himself that such discussions of his father's motives for marriage—the very ones Sam had found so terribly upsetting—amounted to a reasonable summary of his own concerns.

"Hush, Darling!" Christopher fed a hand into Samantha's hair, stroking the warm skin behind her ear. "It couldn't matter less what they think."

Sam sniffed. "I suppose I'm just not elegant or sophisticated enough to be taken seriously. Look at Alice—she's so devastatingly chic. And all the other ladies are like something out of _Vogue."_ She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "So, naturally, they think _I'm _some sort of cook-cum-slipper-fetching housekeeper."

"Utter. Rot." Christopher fished inside his pocket and produced his handkerchief. He handed it to Sam, watching her with gentle eyes as she blew her nose and dabbed at her cheeks.

"Thanks," she said miserably, looking away.

Foyle slipped a finger underneath her chin and brought her round to face him. "You look ravishing." His voice deepened. "I could barely keep my eyes off you all evening—or my hands, for that matter. In fact," he cast a leisurely glance behind to reassure himself that they were unobserved, "the devil with it! Come here."

Leaning forwards, Foyle braced her head, entwining his fingers in the soft wisps at her nape, and crushed his lips against hers, pinning her right wrist at shoulder-level against the wooden panelling. Slowly he stroked his thumb across her open palm, and poured himself in to the kiss.

Andrew's jaw went slack, his eyes widening into saucers. Here was his father—_his father!—_devouring Samantha underneath the staircase, and Sam's soft mewls of surrender, interspersed with sweet coos of pleasure, clearly showed that she was loving it.

Mesmerised, Andrew continued to watch Sam lose herself in the kiss, transfixed by the sensuous quality of her responsiveness. For several—obviously, from Sam's perspective, several _glorious_—moments, Andrew's cigarette languished, forgotten, between his fingers. Eventually it burnt down to a stub, and singed his fingers. _What the f—! _He dropped it, and shook his hand in pain and in exasperation, pressing the scorched skin to his mouth, but he hardly missed a beat before his eyes latched onto the reflections in the mirror once again.

After what seemed like an age to Andrew, and an exhaustive lesson in the art of intimacy fully-clothed, his father pulled away from Sam and breathed "Delicious woman. Don't they know it's not a blasted cook I need?"

Samantha made a play at recovering her senses, mumbling weakly, "Christopher, we mustn't do this here…"

Foyle cocked one eyebrow. "Since general opinion seems to be that I _can't_ or _don't,_ it follows that _this_ isn't happening."

"Christopher Foyle," Sam giggled. "We _can't _make love in Alice's hall. Whatever will she think of me?"

"Dunno. But I know what _I _think of you." Foyle dove in for a second helping of Samantha, this time wrapping an arm about her waist and pulling her against him tightly.

This, for Andrew, was the final straw. The intensity of the romantic clinch conquered even Andrew's curiosity. He tore his eyes away and half-collapsed against the floral-patterned wallpaper in the drawing room, sweating through the implications of what he had just witnessed.

This was not the passionless partnership he had imagined, but a full-blooded, lust-fuelled union, with the potential to lead God-knew-where. Sam's distress over the voices' dismissal of her marriage as platonic was entirely justified, and Andrew ruefully admitted to himself that his own voice was no less culpable of misjudging the arrangement and the sentiments involved. If the sententious matrons on the stairs had upset Samantha, how much more painful, then, must be his own refusal to treat her marriage to his father seriously?

To make his guilty conscience worse, Andrew recognised that Sam had chosen to protect him from his father's anger by keeping to herself their fraught conversation of the night before. He closed his eyes to shut out the uncomfortable reality of his own prejudice. Sam loved his father in every sense that married love entailed, and _this _state of affairs he found difficult to credit—if he were honest, difficult to _stomach_. Wearily he pinched the bridge of his nose, and reached into his pocket for another cigarette.

He stood propped against the wall, eyes screwed shut, drawing calming smoke deep into his lungs. After a few moments the sound of swift footfalls on the staircase reached his ears. With some relief, he realised that the lovers—for there was no denying now that such they were—had called a halt to their under-stairs tryst. His relief was short-lived as reality struck home: _Oh God!_ Samantha and his father were transferring to the bedroom. And in haste.

"Penny for them!" Georgie's voice hauled Andrew from his private hell. His eyes reopened to the sight of Georgie's winning smile, and a spray of silk gardenias nestling within dark curly hair.

"It won't do, you know," she carried on. "Sloping off like that, when we've only just seen in the New Year. By rights you should be out there on the doorstep with a lump of coal. And it has to be _you_ out there, Andrew. You're the only man at the party with dark hair—actually, now that I come to think of it," she giggled, "apart from Commander Howard, who's grey, you're the only other man _with_ hair."

"Come again?" Andrew's mind was still coping with his father's amorous display, and struggled to make sense of this suddenly imposed change of agenda. The genuine puzzlement on his face invited further explanation.

Georgie was both ready and happy to oblige. "First-footing, Andrew. It's important. Everybody needs the extra luck this year."

Andrew expelled a lungful of smoke and regarded her bleakly. "Shouldn't you be in bed?" he asked testily. "Lots of people have already gone up."

"Don't be daft, it's only just gone midnight. Bags of energy left. In any case," she grinned, "I was sort of hoping that you'd walk me home. I'm at the Camden Arms, remember?"

"Sorry. Slipped my mind. Of course I shall." As he took in the sight of Georgie properly, Andrew's gaze softened, and his hand reached out to touch the silk flowers in her hair. "These are nice," he told her kindly. "They set your hair off a treat."

Georgie's hand rose to the silk spray and grazed his. "Thanks! They're lovely, aren't they? Samantha lent them to me. She said she wore them for the wedding. Surprised you haven't recognised them, actually. Well, maybe I _shouldn't_ be surprised. Men never notice fashion details. But it _was_ their big day…"

"I wasn't there."

Georgie gave him such an uncomprehending look that Andrew was relieved to have a water-tight excuse to offer. "I was in Mal— I was on active service. Couldn't get away," he told her, feeling like a craven liar—although the substance of what he'd said was true.

"Oh, that's rotten." Georgie's brows twisted in sympathy, sharpening his now-familiar sensation of guilt. "Still, you're here now," she appended brightly. "And you can bring them good luck by crossing the threshold with this piece of coal…"—Georgie produced a linen-napkin parcel from behind her back—"…which I liberated from the scuttle in the main room." She undid the napkin to reveal a hefty chunk of anthracite. "Now all you need to do"—she herded him out of the drawing room—"is carry it _outside_, knock on the front door, and I'll let you in."

"Georgie, it's bloody freezing out there."

"Chicken! _I _have to walk _all_ the way back to the pub in the freezing cold, and _you_ won't even step outside to do first-footing. _Berk-berk-berk-bekerrrk!_" she taunted.

"What? Give me that!" Irritated, Andrew grabbed the lump of coal and marched across the hallway, calling over his shoulder, "When I knock, you'd better let me in pretty smartly, or there'll be trouble."

"I'll let you in. Why wouldn't I?" Georgie trailed after him, smirking.

"Why? Because of your obviously impish sense of humour."

"Commander and Mrs Howard and a handful of other guests are still up. If you don't trust _me_ to let you in, I'll fetch them all out here. Now, shoo!" Georgie opened the front door and virtually booted Andrew through it with his lump of coal. Then she wandered back into the grand reception room to find her host and hostess.

Some minutes later, Georgie hovered in the vestibule, waiting for the other guests to emerge from the reception room. Since she'd ejected Andrew, there had been a couple of knocks on the door, which she'd ignored.

"…come along, Charles, it's tradition." Alice's voice preceded her into the hallway.

Satisfied that the time was right, Georgie called loudly through the door, "Right-oh, Andrew! Commander Howard's here now. You may knock."

A strident rap of brass on brass resounded through the imposing entrance hall. Charles Howard strode up to his front door and pulled it open, beaming.

"Looks as if we've caught ourselves a crabfat." Charles grinned. "A frozen one, at that!" There stood his nephew under the pillared portico, shivering in his RAF dress blues, clutching a lump of coal in fingers of a similar bluish hue. Andrew's eyes darted to Georgie. "Five ruddy minutes, I've been out there! Where _were_ you?" His face glowed like a beacon.

"Our hosts were talking to Dame Laura. I thought it rude to interrupt," shrugged Georgie, defensively.

Dame Laura Knight, a grey-haired _grande dame_ in her late sixties, did not seem at all the type to be put out by interruptions. She had accompanied her husband and her hosts into the entrance hall, in anticipation of the promised traditional event, and now smiled mischievously at Georgie and Andrew with kind, twinkly eyes atop an aquiline nose. "Keep my name out of it," she boomed. "I'll not be implicated in this lovers' tiff."

Andrew shot Georgie a startled look. "It's not…"

"No, we're not…" added Georgie, helpfully.

Dame Laura blinked owlishly. "Well whatever you're not, I'll not be in the middle of it. Alice, you and I must now line up to receive a kiss, according to tradition."

"Indeed, we must," said Alice. "Do your duty, Andrew. All the women in the household must be kissed. We shall excuse you from dragging out of bed the ones who have already retired for the night, but Dame Laura and Georgie and I expect our due."

Andrew deposited the coal in Charles's waiting hand and did his duty by the ladies: pecks on the cheek for both Dame Laura and his aunt. When he got to Georgie, he made sure to place an icy hand on her right cheek while he pecked her on the left, allowing the frozen tip of his nose to linger rather longer than was necessary for the kiss.

"Ouch! You're like an icicle, Andrew," protested Georgie.

"And whose fault is that?" he supplied, unapologetically. "Try five minutes in those temperatures."

Andrew turned then to address the handful of people standing in the hall, and cleared his throat. "To the company here assembled, and to those already in their beds, I wish a happy, healthy and prosperous new year. Success in all your enterprise!" Charles handed him a glass of whisky to complete the toast.

Murmurs of "Happy New Year!"rippled round the assembled guests, and variously, they drifted back into the grand reception room, or climbed the stairs.

Finally the entrance hall was empty except for Andrew and Georgina. "You left me outside to freeze," he complained afresh.

"You should be used to the cold. You operate at high altitudes."

"In full flight gear, yes. Thought my ears were going to drop off out there. They're like two ice blocks. Feel." He grasped her hand and, when she didn't resist, drew it up and placed it on his ear.

Unprompted, Georgie raised her other hand to cup the opposite ear. "Let me thaw them for you, then."

He looked down at Georgie, regarding her through narrowed eyelids. "No good trying to curry favour now. I should put _you_ on the doorstep for a bit. See how you like it."

"Oh, don't be such an old woman. I regularly freeze on duty, waiting around for your Uncle Charles to complete his business." She withdrew her hands from his ears, but Andrew caught her wrists and drew them back up to his head again.

"They're still cold."

Georgie gave him a half-smirk. "You'll live, though."

"My nose"—Andrew touched it with his forefinger—"has frostbite."

"I could breathe on it for you."

"That would be nice."

Georgie rose on her toes, so that she was level with Andrew's nose, and exhaled with a little "Hah!" onto the tip.

"Better. But better still if you warmed it with your mouth."

Georgie brought herself up to his height again, and planted her lips on the chilled flesh at the end of his nose, holding them steady for a few seconds before withdrawing them.

"How was that?" Her hands remained cupping his ears.

"My, er, cheeks are cold, as well."

Georgie was well aware of Andrew's game, and it was quite all right with her. She found him to be easy company, if slightly on the maudlin side—which, she imagined, was attributable to the harsh realities of doing battle in the air.

"Andrew, if you're angling for a proper kiss, you have only to ask. I like you. And I haven't got a boyfriend." She smiled, and, magically, the dimples reappeared.

Andrew looked down into her eyes. They were the same brown he remembered as Samantha's, but they were sparkling for him in a way he never did experience from Sam. _Perhaps this was the way that things were meant to be…_

He reached out a hand and cradled the back of Georgie's neck, enjoying the silken feel of her dark curls between his fingers.

"Kiss me, Georgie, if it wouldn't put you out terribly."

"All right. _I _don't mind." She stood on tiptoe once again, closed her eyes and puckered her lips, planting a kiss squarely on his mouth, between the hands that still cupped his ears.

Andrew smiled inwardly. This was not a girl who'd done much kissing, but her spirit veered towards the willing. He caught her gently by the shoulders. "That was very nice, Georgie. May I return the favour? Not here, though..."

"Mmm," she said, licking her lips thoughtfully. "I don't mind if you do."

She let Andrew lead her by the hand to a secluded spot beneath the stairwell. There, he stroked a hand lightly down her soft locks.

"Such lovely hair you've got," he told her. "Don't think I've ever seen hair quite like it."

"I get it from my father's side," she said. "He's Jewish. I suppose that makes me Jewish, too. Although my mother comes from Ayr. So that's me, I s'pose: half Jewish and half, um, Ayrian. Ta-daaa!"

Andrew snorted with laughter. "Georgie," he chuckled, "you're priceless. May I kiss you now?"

"Mmm. Yes, please." She faced him with pursed lips, and puckered up.

The kiss that Andrew bestowed was gentle; reverent and un-intrusive. Standing as he was, where his father had stood less than half an hour before, dispensing practised passion, Andrew felt that this was the beginning of something very special, and he didn't want to kill it dead by jumping the gun.

Georgie's lips beneath his own were pliant, dewy and yielding, but, he realised, completely untried, and he was not about to push his luck by racing for the finish line. For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt that he was on a long-distance stretch, and for that reason, he would pace himself.

******** TBC ********

More soon.

**GiuC**


	24. Chapter 24

**L'Aimant – Chapter 24**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

_Chapter 24: Sam and Andrew both come to grief, in different ways._

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

I took a short break from _L'Aimant_ to write another Foyle's War story, which may be posted in the near future. If you're interested, do sign up for a writer alert using "Follow".

…

Marston's Burton Bitter was and is a brand of British beer. Usually served nice and warm, so GIs probably hated it. I may have mentioned this previously, but the phrase "gone for a Burton" was an RAF euphemism used to refer to pilots who'd failed to return from a mission, and were therefore presumed dead.

…

Thanks to _dancesabove_ for excellent ideas and betawork.

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_"Such lovely hair you've got," he told her. "Don't think I've ever seen hair quite like it."_

_"I get it from my father's side," she said. "He's Jewish. I suppose that makes me Jewish, too. Although my mother comes from Ayr. So that's me, I s'pose: half Jewish and half, um, Ayrian. Ta-daaa!"_

_Andrew snorted with laughter. "Georgie," he chuckled, "you're priceless. May I kiss you now?"_

_"Mmm. Yes, please." She faced him with pursed lips, and puckered up._

_The kiss that Andrew bestowed was gentle; reverent and un-intrusive. Standing as he was, where his father had stood less than half an hour before, dispensing practised passion, Andrew felt that this was the beginning of something very special, and he didn't want to kill it dead by jumping the gun._

_Georgie's lips beneath his own were pliant, dewy and yielding, but, he realised, completely untried, and he was not about to push his luck by racing for the finish line. For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt that he was on a long-distance stretch, and for that reason, he would pace himself._

* * *

**Chapter 24**

**Monday, 1****st**** January, 1945**

"We spent so much time yesterday swapping MTC horror stories, I haven't learned a thing about your family." Sam took Georgie's arm as they strolled into the drawing room on New Year's Morning. "I know you come from Arundel, but did I mention I grew up in Lyminster? Lived there all my life, until I met my husband."

_Oh hark at yourself_,thought Sam. _'Until I met my husband'_. It sounded so… pretentious. But after all, it was the truth. The fact that when she'd met Christopher, she'd had no idea that he would ever _be_ her husband was surely neither here nor there. _It makes me sound like Methuselah, though. Next to Georgie, at any rate._

Georgie's companionship was unusual for Sam, in that everyone apart from Andrew in her immediate circle was her senior in years. Thinking back to her twenty-year-old ingénue self was difficult to do with objectivity, but being in Georgina's company made Sam feel like this young woman's youthful auntie. Georgie might well come across as a little old soul at times, but she was oh, so young. Sam's move from Lyminster to Hastings had been more than just a relocation; it had matured her in more ways than she could name, and cast her in a new role: that of Mrs Foyle.

"I forgot to ask you," Sam continued. "Do you know a Dr Rose? Nice old gentleman who comes to Lyminster sometimes, and he's charm itself. Could he be a relative of yours? It occurred to me he might just be your grandpa, or your father's uncle."

Georgie's eyes slid sideways. "I say. Now wouldn't _that_ be funny? But I have to disappoint you. Sorry."

Sam shrugged. "Well, it was a bit of a long shot. Still, Arundel's not a big place, and Rose isn't a common name. What does your father do, by the way? Mine's a vicar."

Georgie played her trump card. "Mine's a doctor."

Sam bit her tongue. "Oh… Georgie… I… I'm sorry. He's your father, isn't he?" This was a gaffe, and no denying it. Assumptions. One must _not_ assume. Christopher's police work should have taught her that, at least. Suddenly Sam felt no better than the gossips on the stairs who'd pigeonholed her marriage as a sham because of age. A blush crept up her cheeks.

She worried unnecessarily; Georgie took it like a brick. "You're not the first to make _that_ small mistake." Detecting Sam's discomfiture, she squeezed her arm. "Oh, Sam. _I _don't mind. You mustn't imagine that I do. I _used_ to, for a bit, in junior school, but not these days. Anyway, parents aren't doing their job if they're not embarrassing you, are they?"

Sam could only agree, remembering her father's peremptory visit to Hastings just a few years earlier, hell-bent (well, heaven-bent) on gathering her back into the fold. "Wise beyond your years, Miss Rose," she smiled, admiringly.

"Wise and wily," winked her young companion. "Quick to spot an opportunity, as well. So, come on—tit for tat. How old is Mr Foyle? You can imagine why I want to know…"

Indeed Sam could, and so she told Georgina, asking in return, "…how old was Dr Rose when you were born?"

"Same age as Mr Foyle is now." Georgie's voice took on a sing-song intonation. "So, you see, Sam? Better watch yourself, or you might have a little Georgie on your hands!"

In the circumstance, it would have been quite nice to share with Georgie how that horse had bolted, with the barn door swinging merrily behind, but it didn't seem quite fair to break the news to her young friend before they'd even shared the facts with Andrew, difficult though he was being. In any case, with just a two-week marriage to Sam's name, there was the problematic question of her dates, and how she would explain her knowledge that she was already in the family way. So Sam settled for a genuine, but general, expression of approval.

"I wouldn't mind a little Georgie, or a George."

But the romantically-minded Miss Rose was not about to let the subject lie. "With such a corker of a husband, I can't imagine you'll have long to wait!"

"Oh, Georgie, shush! For heaven's sake." Sam's admonition was good-natured, but her young friend's observation made her blush.

"I can see where Andrew gets his charm from, though," Georgie went on. "Just wish he was a bit less miserable with it."

"He's seen a lot of death, Georgie." Sam surprised herself with this knee-jerk defence of Andrew. Christopher had, after all, fought in a war, and seen his share of brutal death first-hand, but he showed greater tolerance of "otherness" than did his son. The reason why? Sam plumped for human frailty. Police work put her husband in the thick of people, so Christopher had seen the lion's share of that. Oh, he upheld the law assiduously, but the only person he ever came down hard on for being human was himself.

Georgie wanted details. "Did he sweep you off your feet?"

_Oh, God, did he _ever_! _Sam's insides vaulted at the memory of their first night at Steep Lane, blithely editing the guilt and worry from the scene. "Mmm," she conceded, in a non-committal tone, hoping to throw Georgie off the scent. "It _was_ quite, er, romantic."

"Oooh, I _bet_ it was." Georgie's imagination took flight. "He's such a gentleman. And you know, he looks at you with big cow's eyes. I've seen him doing it. Not obviously, mind. But when he thinks nobody's watching, there he goes again. I like to see what people do, the minute they think they're unobserved."

A frown invaded Sam's expression. If Georgie saw it, why not other people? Why not the silly women on the stairs? The 'cook' label rankled still in Sam's mind, and she couldn't help but fish for reassurance. "_Some_ people seem to think he married me to cook his meals and wash his socks."

"Can you cook _as well_, then?" Georgie's interest was comically sincere, but, thankfully, entirely secondary.

"Shepherd's pie and coq au vin," smiled Sam. _And babies. Bottom shelf, On Regulo a quarter. Simmer for nine months. Stir frequently, if I'm lucky. Speaking of which…_

Sam had managed little sleep between the hours of one a.m. and four. Christopher had had such entrancing notions of how the New Year should be seen in, in the privacy of their bedroom:

_Where did we get to, downstairs, Sam? Mmm? There. And here. And here…_

Afterwards they had nestled in bed like a pair of spoons, until she felt his soft lips grazing on the downy hairs around her hairline at the neck.

_You smell delicious. _

_Christopher, it's after two!_

_Feel I need to prove myself—those women on the stairs._

_You said you didn't _listen_ to such rot… _

_Confound the doubters out there… _

_Unless you ask them in to watch, they'll still be doubters. _

_Maybe _I've_ begun to doubt, myself..._

_Oh, tosh! You're such an awful ham. _

_Ah, Sam, I am exposed. You have the measure of me… here. And here…_

Sam broke into a sweat. Her hand slipped underneath her collar, stroking at the pleasure point where her neck curved into her shoulder—where Christopher had nuzzled her during their early morning lovemaking. Even now, the touch of her own fingers to the spot started a shiver. A wave of relaxation overtook her, followed by a sudden impetus to yawn. She stretched into it, seeing stars before her eyes.

A moment later, Sam was gazing up, bewildered, at the ceiling, and at Georgie's startled face.

"You passed out!" fretted Georgie over her. "Like an idiot, I stood and watched you keeling over. Gave me such a turn. Are you all right? Stay there, don't move, I'll get someone to lift you."

Sam groaned inwardly. _Not again. _Passing out on Christopher's bedroom floor some weeks back, then the tumble from her bike. Now she was supine once again, and this time in public view. Did every woman have such a job of it staying upright during pregnancy? Her hand crept to her abdomen and rested there protectively. Soon new voices were approaching—Alice Howard's, and the deeper, rounded tones of Laura Knight.

Alice took in Sam's posture in an instant, noting the particular position of her hand, and made an educated guess. Laura wasn't far behind, having already, with her portraitist's eye, noted the bloom on Sam's cheek when they'd met the previous evening.

Georgie fussed behind them as they stooped to help Sam sit up. "She just stretched, then folded like a rag doll. Gave me such a fright! Is she going to be all right?"

Recovering slowly from her daze, Sam offered weakly, "I'll be all right in a minute."

"Slowly. Very slowly," advised Alice in her normal voice, as she and Laura prepared to decant Sam into an armchair. Then, under her breath so that only persons close could hear: "Sam, falling like a sack of potatoes isn't good if you're expecting. If you know you are, then please don't keep it to yourself."

Sam's colour rose in front of Alice and Dame Laura. Neither woman, from her recent observation of them, was an idle gossip. Assessing that she could rely on both the ladies to be discreet, she admitted softly, "We haven't told people yet. So I'd rather no one made a fuss."

Alice held back a satisfied smile, mentally revisiting some of the remarks she had overheard that weekend from the women of her circle, about Christopher's 'marriage of convenience'. They meant no malice by it, to be sure, but Alice imagined their perception of the match was skewed by their prior experience of Christopher, and by personal marital circumstances.

Christopher's lack of inclination to involve himself with women since the death of Rosalind, had indeed been widely remarked upon. Alice's old friend Mavis Jefferies had, by Alice's calculation, made subtle plays for Christopher on seven separate occasions since the death of her own husband, and in each successive instance been politely but resolutely obfuscated, sidestepped, and then finally rebuffed. Fenella Hadley, on the other hand, was the sad possessor of a husband Christopher's age who was fond of claiming in the bedroom that he was "off his game"—which gem of information Fenella had seen fit to share, complainingly, with Alice. She in turn had passed the information on to Charles, who'd laughed, and intimated he knew Hadley's "game" rather better than Fenella—from his first-hand observations of the man's behaviour round the Admiralty Wrens.

All in all, Alice reflected, these ladies of a certain age—her own age, she chuckled inwardly—could hardly be blamed for their view of Christopher as an asexual being. Added to which, Sam's sunny practicality around him was not a glaring advert for activity between the sheets.

"Well, now, Dear, let's get you in that chair," said Laura kindly. "Georgina, run and fetch a glass of water, there's a girl."

Georgie had heard enough to understand the nature of the problem, and dashed away with startled eyes in search of Mrs Allingham and the kitchen. Crossing the entrance hall at a fair old trot, she bumped, quite literally, into Commander Howard, and blurted to him that Samantha Foyle had fainted.

Charles had just come from persuading Christopher to join him in bagging a rabbit or two for the pot. Now he turned abruptly on his toes to fetch Sam's husband from the morning room. "You'd better come, old chap. They're picking Samantha orf the drawing room carpet."

Foyle charged across the foyer, leaving Howard, despite his long legs, well behind.

Seeing her white-faced husband enter the room, Sam groaned, "I asked for no fuss. Really, this is nothing. I'll be right as ninepence in a mo."

Foyle was having none of it. He leant and placed both hands on the arms of Sam's chair, peering deeply into her eyes. Then he drew himself upright and turned to Charles. "Not terribly keen on leaving her, so you go on without me. Take Andrew out, why don't you? Moving targets are his speciality."

Charles cast his eyes in the direction of the entrance hall, now being briskly crossed by Georgie in the company of Andrew. "Yes, sorry, old chap, that's bloody. Of course, see to your wife. But Andrew," he smirked, "seems rather occupied with my young driver."

_Why am I less than surprised?_ Foyle thought drily, turning back to Sam.

"Water for the invalid, as ordered!" Georgie's grand announcement turned all heads.

Noting Andrew's presence at the young woman's side, Sam suppressed a second groan. _Might as well take out a full page announcement in the _Sussex Advertiser_ after this. _Smiling weakly to Christopher, she tried to salvage as much face as possible. "Sorry, Darling," she played to the gallery, "You did warn me not to over-indulge last night. Silly me. Can't hold my booze."

Over-indulgence. Foyle contorted his features at the uncomfortable thought that he was partly—strike that—_thoroughly_ bloody responsible for her exhaustion. "Back upstairs to rest for a few hours," he told her firmly. "Drink your water. Andrew and I will get you upstairs." He turned and gave his son a pointed look.

Andrew recognised a call to active duty when he heard one. "Yes, of course, Dad. Sorry you're unwell, Sam."

"It's… all right, Andrew. I can manage perfectly." Sam rose, reeled, and sat down again abruptly.

Fixing his son with the same wide-eyed imperative that Andrew remembered so well from his childhood, Foyle nodded once towards Samantha.

"I've got her, Dad. Excuse me, Sam." Before she could protest, Andrew had scooped Samantha from the chair and up into his arms. As he carried her upstairs, with his father bringing up the rear, he murmured, "I suppose you're still a little angry with me," in Sam's ear.

"What do you expect? Put me down, will you?" she hissed. "I'm being made into a spectacle." Then, squirming to look over Andrew's shoulder, she pleaded, "Christopher?"

"He'll put you down when I tell him to."

Deposited on the bed, with Andrew gone, Sam addressed the tailboard over folded arms. "Why did you let him carry me upstairs?"

"You weren't steady on your pins."

"All right, but. You can lift me easily. I know you can."

Foyle's eyes twinkled. "Thought I'd allow him to impress Miss Rose. 'Sides which… why keep a dog and bark yourself?"

"Really," grumbled Sam. "You Foyles are quite as bad as one another."

* * *

"Gosh, you picked her up as if she were a bag of feathers," an awestruck Georgie called up to Andrew, as he trotted back downstairs towards the hall. "I haven't been swept up in someone's arms like that since I was a little girl. Is Sam going to be all right?"

Andrew splayed both hands uncertainly. "Dad's with her. Don't suppose he'll let her do herself an injury." He shook his head disapprovingly. "But she should keep off the sauce. Got no head for it. _That _much is obvious."

Not wishing Sam to get a reputation as a lush, Georgie dived in to salvage her new friend's good name. "It's probably just because she's expecting," she supplied anxiously. "I don't believe she had more than a glass at last night's do."

Andrew looked at her as if she'd grown two heads. "Don't be daft, Georgie. Sam isn't expecting anything beyond a headache. She's got a hangover." Even as the declaration passed his lips, a sudden feeling of disquiet crept in.

Georgie's eyes stretched in alarm. _Andrew doesn't know?_ Sam had made it clear that her happy news was not yet public knowledge among 'people', but Georgie hadn't dreamed they would be keeping such important news from Andrew. How was Andrew 'people'? Her cheeks caught fire. She'd let the cat out of the bag, and that was unforgiveable.

"Oh. Well," she backpedalled hastily, forcing a grin, "I'm sure you're right. Champagne can be a killer." The walls and parquet floor took on a new fascination for her while she grappled for an escape line. "Think I'll just nip out and check the Riley. Plugs and… stuff… or… wotsit." Nodding to herself, she made a rapid move for the front door.

"Whoah, no you don't; not so fast, Miss Rose." Leaping down the last few stairs, Andrew reached to catch her by the elbow.

He eased her gently round to face him, and bent to peer into her eyes. His lips puckered hesitantly round the question forming in his mind: "Wwwwhat… do _you_ know… that _I_… don't?"

"Nothing." Georgie's voice was small, her pupils wide with the anxiety of being under scrutiny. "I just thought… I'm probably wrong. Heh."

Andrew's eyes narrowed as he prepared to smoke her out. "You"—he assessed her coolly—"are a very poor fibber, Georgie. Tell the truth. Now."

Georgina Rose stared up at him through huge brown orbs. "I can't. I have. I didn't know that you—" she squirmed. "It's not my pla—"

Tired of playing fair, her eyes strayed down to where his hand still hovered loosely at her elbow. Her lips turned up in triumph. "Take your hands off me, you bully!" she told him self-righteously.

"Wha?" Out-manoeuvred by a raven-curled spitfire two-thirds his size, Andrew snatched his hand away as if he'd just been burnt.

Georgina folded her arms and gave him a look of smug superiority.

Exasperated, Andrew shoved his hands into his pockets and began to pace the entrance hall, unravelling the implications of what he'd just learned. His pacing brought him back in front of Georgie.

"She can't be," he pleaded. "He's too old for… to be having children. It's just… preposterous," he added, for good measure.

Georgie's eyes flashed, and her lip curled into an indignant sneer. Arms still folded, she swung one foot back and kicked him once, hard, on the shin.

Andrew gasped in pain. "Ow! Georgie! Ow! For pity's sake! What the—" He bent and rubbed the throbbing spot below his knee.

"My father's seventy, my mother's forty-five," she hissed. "There's nothing wrong with that. You take it back! You _horrid _person."

Horrified and smarting simultaneously, Andrew saw at once he'd have to eat his words. "Look, Love, I'm sorry. Might have been a little hasty…" Even as he paid lip-service to regret, he still consoled himself there must be some mistake. "In any case," he grated out, still rubbing at his shin, "Sam and Dad have barely been married a fortnight. She wouldn't be able to tell that she was in the family way yet…"

Andrew stopped mid-flow and blanched.

Georgie, having previously failed to do her sums, blinked for an awkward moment. But she recovered her composure in a beat. To Georgie's way of thinking, Sam's dates paled to insignificance alongside Andrew's villainous assessment of a circumstance so closely mirroring her parents'. In any case, to Georgie's mind, it sounded quite the romance, thank you very much. And Mr Foyle had married Sam, so bully for them both.

Foyle _fils _broke off from massaging his shin-bone, and flexed his knee experimentally. Relieved to find it in working order, he stuffed his hands into his pockets yet again and resumed his restless stalking about.

This revelation called for serious thought. Might the child not be his father's? Had his sterling-hearted dad offered Sam marriage to cover her indiscretion with another man? God knows, his father had a soft spot for her. Or perhaps the indiscretion was his father's after all. A momentary mis-step for which his dad was duty-bound to make her reparation?

Andrew's tongue traced thoughtfully along the inside of his bottom teeth, weighing up the likelihood of either scenario. He had to concede that, knowing both players as he did, neither situation seemed particularly plausible. Added to which, the evidence of his eyes—that fevered under-stairs clinch—pointed to an active and ongoing passion. _Fine. _His dad had put Samantha in the family way, then married her. But clearly from the under-stairs behaviour he had witnessed, there was sexual desire both ways, and tender, shared affection._ Dammit. _That translated into one word: _LOVE_. Just as they had told him all along.

He looked at Georgie, who was scowling at him now through slitted eyes. Georgie's parents—age-gap marriage, clearly still together. Marriages like theirs _could _last, and, according to the evidence, be happy. Here before him was the living, breathing, kicking— _oh-my-God-this-new-romance-is-going-for-a-Burton —_proof.

******** TBC ********

More soon.

**GiuC**


	25. Chapter 25

**L'Aimant – Chapter 25**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

_Chapter 25: _Foyle family members have a range of sensitive conversations.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

This is one of my dual-rating chapters. For added zing, **defect NOW** and read the **M**-rated version of this chapter instead, published separately as "**L'Aimant – Chap 25 (M)**" (but you will need to change your search-filter settings to "**Rated - M**" or "**Rating: All**" first, otherwise the M chapter won't be visible in the Foyle's War listing).

If you prefer to stick with this **T**-rated version of the chapter, simply read on.

...

Dame Laura Knight RA RWS ROI (1877–1970, DBE 1929) was already a veteran artist in the realist tradition, and a pioneering painter of women, when the Ministry of Information's War Artists Advisory Committee commissioned her to paint war heroes of both sexes. She also produced arresting pictures of women engaged in war work, the most famous of which is that of a factory worker: _Ruby Loftus Screwing a Breech-Ring_ (Google it—nothing risqué, I assure you).

In 1936 she was elected to the Royal Academy (RA), the first woman to receive the honour in nearly two hundred years. She was also an elected member of the Royal Watercolour Society and the Royal Institute of Oil Painters (ROI).

At the end of the war, Dame Laura actively sought an official assignment to paint the assembled Nazi leaders at the war crimes tribunals in Nuremberg. [If I had my way, Series 9 (or 8, depending on your numbering-preference) of _Foyle's War_ would see Our Hero communing with Dame Laura as she sketches such a gallery of wickedness.]

Harold Knight RA (1874–1961), husband of Dame Laura, was a distinguished portraitist. He was a conscientious objector, and during the First World War was put to work labouring on a farm. His mental and physical health suffered as a result of harsh treatment by the authorities and his peers. Harold was elected to the RoyalAcademy in 1937, one year after his wife.

Both the Knights spent periods of their early lives in France. Laura attended school there until the age of 12, and Harold studied art in Paris.

...

Separated by a common language: Before I get any comments, 'faggot' in British English is a ball of chopped liver mixed with breadcrumbs and onion, and baked in a rich gravy. Available ready-made from UK supermarkets under the unfortunate brand-name 'Brains', in case you're interested. I like 'em.

...

_dancesabove_ – thanks for weeding this overgrown patch of prose, and for excellent suggestions.

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_Foyle __**fils**__ broke off from massaging his shin-bone, and flexed his knee experimentally. Relieved to find it in working order, he stuffed his hands into his pockets yet again and resumed his restless stalking about. _

_This revelation called for serious thought. Might the child not be his father's? Had his sterling-hearted dad offered Sam marriage to cover her indiscretion with another man? God knows, his father had a soft spot for her. Or perhaps the indiscretion was his father's after all. A momentary mis-step for which his dad was duty-bound to make her reparation? _

_Andrew's tongue traced thoughtfully along the inside of his bottom teeth, weighing up the likelihood of either scenario. He had to concede that, knowing both players as he did, neither situation seemed particularly plausible. Added to which, the evidence of his eyes—that fevered under-stairs clinch—pointed to an active and ongoing passion. Fine. His dad had put Samantha in the family way, then married her. But clearly from the under-stairs behaviour he had witnessed, there was sexual desire both ways, and tender, shared affection. __**Dammit.**__ That translated into one word: __**LOVE.**__ Just as they had told him all along._

_He looked at Georgie, who was scowling at him now through slitted eyes. Georgie's parents—age-gap marriage, clearly still together. Marriages like theirs could last, and, according to the evidence, be happy. Here before him was the living, breathing, kicking— __**oh-my-God-this-new-romance-is-going-for-a-Burton**__ —proof._

* * *

**Chapter 25**

**Lunchtime, Monday, 1****st**** January, 1945**

Georgie climbed the stairs, still miserable from the set-to with her disappointingly judgmental young man. With Andrew sent firmly to Coventry, all options for mixing with guests near her own age were exhausted. She missed Sam's company, and thought she might look in to see how she was getting on. More than an hour had passed since Sam had been carried upstairs to rest, and lunch was already being served.

Mr Foyle was half way down the stairs as Georgie started to ascend, and he gave her such a kind smile that she almost felt like crying. He was so nice. And sweet. And Andrew could just go and jump.

"I wonder… may I just stick my head round Sam's door?" she asked uncertainly, glancing up towards the landing.

"Sam'll be very pleased to see you." Foyle's warm acknowledgement made Georgie tingle from her ear-tips to her toes. _Such a gentleman._

Foyle nodded down towards the dining room. "How's lunch coming along?"

Georgie grinned. _A man after my own heart_. "Delicious-looking spread, Mr Foyle. Mrs Allingham's a wiz without a wand." Sudden inspiration struck. "Shall I take some up for Sam? Will she be hungry, do you think?"

"Prrretty sure she'll be your friend for life if you turn up with food."

The lovely man was teasing her—and Sam. It felt amazing. Georgie altered course and joined Foyle on his way downstairs.

She glanced up at him shyly. Mr Foyle's eyes crinkled in the dearest way when he smiled. Andrew's eyes were cheekier. And his smile more open—full sunshine to his father's gentle glow. But Andrew didn't smile enough, she mused sadly. He brooded lots. And had uncharitable opinions that annoyed her. She'd a good mind to go and shake some sense into him. Or, if that failed, kick him in the other shin.

But after lunch would do.

"What sort of food does Sam like?" Georgie asked Foyle comfortably as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

Foyle stretched out his arm, inviting the young lady to precede him. "Believe me,"—the trace of a lopsided grin crept across his features—"you can't go wrong."

* * *

Foyle parted company with Georgie in the entrance hall and wandered off to find his son. He found him propped against the frame of the French windows, staring gloomily across the garden.

He gestured at the lighted cigarette in Andrew's hand.

"You can't live on those things."

Andrew examined the smoking Dunhill cradled in his palm. "Can't live without 'em, Dad." Deftly he flipped the cigarette around, then took another drag, squinting sightlessly ahead.

Foyle sauntered up to stand beside him, lowering his eyeline. Then he sank his hands into his pockets and gazed into the distance. "I'm all ears, Andrew. Spit it out."

There was a pause. A steady stream of smoke escaped from Andrew's nostrils, and then the question came. "Is Sam expecting?"

_That didn't take him long. _Foyle pursed his lips. "ErYep."

Andrew turned hurt eyes towards his father. "You couldn't have just told me?"

"I just did."

"I mean, before." _You awkward beggar, Dad._

"Hardly going to encourage further commentary, was I? Those three pages on RAF stationery were enough, thanks."

Andrew dropped his eyes, accepting the rebuke. "You know how fond I am of Sam."

Foyle inclined his head. He knew.

"And you know I love you, Dad."

"Never doubted it."

"So… I've got to ask you: Is it yours?"

Foyle grimaced as he weighed the question. For such a brief inquiry, it packed a hefty punch, and his immediate choices were to either pack a heftier one in payback, or to answer calmly. Given that the question was coming from his son. Who professed to love him.

Foyle's hands balled into fists, but stayed inside his pockets. "Prepared to let you have that one for free," he managed finally. "Mmmight even understand why you'd ask me? Answer's yes. It's mine. Don't _ever_ want to hear that sentiment of doubt expressed again in any form or context. Sam… has _nothing_ to reproach herself for. She's been… gracious enough to indicate that I don't, either—difficult for me to agree with her on that point—but I have _everything_ to be thankful for about this marriage. Which, I might add, I feel both undeserving of and privileged to be in, in equal measure. Answer your question?"

Andrew scrunched his eyes tight shut. It wasn't often that his father spoke in paragraphs, but when he did, by God, he covered every angle.

"Dad, I'm really sorry that I had to ask."

His father's lower lip pushed out into a pout. "You had to ask. I chose to answer. Like to ask _you_ something, now."

His penetrating blue eyes met his son's. "D'you actually believe I love Samantha?"

Andrew blinked, then nodded. _Yeah, that's why I asked._ "Yes, Dad. Yes, I really do."

"_If_ you believe that, then your question was a pointless one."

Andrew looked perplexed. "I don't... how so?"

"Because there'd only _ever_ be _one_ answer to that question, from a man in love."

Silence fell between them. Andrew stared down at his cigarette. Something started pricking at his eyes. He thought that it must be the rising smoke.

Foyle gave his son a rueful look from under puckered eyebrows, then gestured towards his son's cupped hand. "Get you some food to go with that?"

* * *

Harold Knight peered eagle-like over his wife's right shoulder, avidly following the fluid movements of her arm. "The lips are wrong," he said at last.

"_Tu crois? Attends…_" Laura Knight applied herself to finishing her sketch, then arched an eyebrow, judging for herself. "You're right. The lips are wrong. But it's a simple matter to correct them. I'll ask the girl to pose for me in person, just as soon as she is feeling better."

"Samantha is unwell?"

Laura reached back with her hand to touch her husband's face, and trailed her fingers round his prominent chin. "Samantha felt a little dizzy. It will pass."

"Always a challenge to capture lips from memory," Harold observed.

"Never for you, my dear," recalled his wife emphatically. "Your sketches of me, when they sent you out to labour in the fields, were sheer perfection—allowing for the limitations of their subject!" A deep and fruity chuckle issued from her throat.

Harold clasped Laura's hand fondly in his own. "They tried to break my spirit, but you lit my way through those dark times, _minette_."

Composing himself, he squinted at the sketch. "I say again, the bottom lip is fuller_._" Harold reached to take the soft pencil from his wife's hand and, gliding it around the outline of the lip, coaxed it to fullness with his little finger.

"Absolutely so," she nodded. "It pouts so temptingly, inviting passion."

"In their day, your lips were fuller still than these, my dear. A wonder that we had no children, for the passion they invited."

"Our paintings are our offspring, Harold."

He gave a soft, good-natured laugh. "Then I should claim paternity for throngs of admirals and lords!" He leant upon her shoulders, studying the sketch. "I'd paint her in an instant. Such a quiet beauty. And her young companion, too."

Laura rose abruptly, carrying the sketch out of his reach. "Hands off! I saw her first, _chéri_. The Ministry are paying _me_, so be the gentleman you are and wait your turn. If you behave, I may permit you entry to my _atelier_ to mix the paint."

Chuckling, Harold wagged a finger at his spouse. "Ah! Still one step ahead of me, _minette_."

"Far from it, Harold. Your technique has been the very rock on which I've built my reputation. And never once forget it."

* * *

Foyle watched his son pick at his food. It broke his heart; Andrew was hurting. Nothing to be done till this infernal war was at an end. _Unless…_

"You ought to get some fresh air. Take Miss Rose out for a spin in that fine roadster."

Andrew snorted. "Think I've burned my boats, Dad. Put my foot right in it, earlier today."

"Right." Foyle turned back to his apple cobbler. The cobbler part had more than a hint of spud about it, but he tossed it gamely round his mouth and swallowed anyway.

Andrew scanned the dining room. Most of the other guests had finished eating and then gravitated out into the salon. Rear Admiral Mervyn-Smythe (retired) was snoozing at the far end of the table. It gave them some degree of privacy.

He let his spoon drop back into his pudding dish. "Weary of it, Dad. Feels like I'm right out on a limb. I need… some down-to-earth normality." _And something soft would be quite nice, as well._

Foyle's lip twitched underneath a frown. "Anything I can do to help?"

Andrew rested both hands, palms up, on the table. "Used to think I had a way with women. Turns out my father has a lot more luck than I do on that score. What's the knack, Dad?"

Foyle wasn't one to laugh out loud. _'A way with women'? _Andrew _thinks _I _have a way with women? _He rubbed his nose, retaining a straight face. "Suddenly, you're asking my advice? Thought I was—and I quote—'delusional, in my dotage, and ought to have more sense'."

A groan from Andrew. "You said you'd binned the letter."

"Nnnot in so many words. To be accurate, I burnt it. But not before it burnt me."

"Dad… I've said I'm sorry."

"Yeah. You have. Look. Andrew." Foyle cleared his throat and lowered his voice. "God knows, _I'm _no expert in this field. But if you want my honest view, there isn't any _knack_. And, more importantly, there's no such thing as 'women'. While you think of them collectively, you're never going to get to where you want to be."

Andrew began to look enthusiastic, as if some light had dawned. "So, what you're saying is... it's like engaging with a German fighter; the battle's one-on-one. Germanity in general doesn't enter into it?"

Foyle sank his face into his hands and groaned. "It's not a _battle_, Andrew. Or a _game_. Everybody's on the same side. If they're not, then things are bound to end in tears." _And even if they are, the outcome's often in the balance, _he reflected privately.

His son's face took on a deflated look. "Deep down, I understand that. But it's just that, this time…"—he recalled his tender kiss with Georgie at the New Year's party, and brightened—"it felt… different, somehow. I was doing _so well_ with Georgie, Dad. I really thought I'd cracked it. Then, this morning, I offended her."

There was one offence his son would not be guilty of, and Foyle dismissed it. "Well, of course you acted like a gentleman. So whatever you _did _do wrong can be repaired. Gain an understanding of how you hurt her. Then, if you value her, apologise. And mean it. But don't apologise unless you do. Remind yourself it's not a game."

"Haven't seen her since before lunch," grumbled Andrew, looking all around.

"I'm pretty sure she's upstairs with Samantha. Come up with me, and get her."

* * *

Sam glanced up as Christopher came into the bedroom. "Georgie thinks I might be low on iron. She's gone to see if Mrs Allingham has got a bit of liver for my evening meal. Oh. Hullo, Andrew."

Foyle nodded back towards the stairs for Andrew's benefit. "Well, there's your answer. Kitchen."

"Fine. I'll be off then in a sec. How are you, Sam?" Andrew strode up to the bed and bent to kiss her. She sized him up through narrowed eyelids, before presenting her cheek.

Foyle stood inside the doorway, chewing on his lower lip, and watched as Andrew knelt beside the bed and took her hand.

"Sam, please forgive me. Every idea in my head was wrong."

"More of a turnip than a head, if you ask me," huffed Sam, but now her eyes were dancing.

Andrew began examining her fingers. "I... er... Look. There's a train-set in the attic for when it's born... if it turns out to be a boy…"

Sam blushed, and shot a questioning look at Christopher. He splayed his hands. _What could I do?_

Sighing, she brought her other hand across to rest on Andrew's head. "I pray you'll be home safe and well before the baby's born," she told him softly. "So you can fetch it down yourself. And even if you get a sister, I expect she'll be mechanically-minded, just like me. Whatever happens, the train-set won't go to waste."

A vision of Samantha, shoulder-deep in an MTC inspection pit and anointed with machine-oil, came to Andrew's mind. He glanced up at her, openly amused. "Mechanically-minded—_you_? Do me a favour!"

Sam's jaw fell slack. Squinting her eyes, she turned to Christopher in mock indignation. "Is he yours? The fairies didn't swap him for a changeling in his cradle?"

Foyle wondered just how many times a day a man could reasonably be expected to vouch for the paternity of his offspring. "Hard to say," he mugged. "Boy didn't get his wings from me, at any rate."

Grinning, Andrew rose and gave Sam's hand a parting kiss. As he passed through the doorway, Foyle fed a hand around his son's shoulders. "Andrew? No more visitors up here till teatime at the earliest, hmm?"

"Fine, Dad. See you both at dinner."

Foyle closed the door behind his son, and locked it.

* * *

With the sound of Andrew's footfalls receding down the landing, Foyle perched beside his wife on the bed. "Feeling better, Sweetheart?"

"I feel a bit silly because of all the fuss, but otherwise quite well. Andrew knows, then."

"He asked me straight out. Wasn't about to lie."

"He seems all right about it."

"I think he's genuinely sorry. Things will be all right, now." He took her hand and stroked the back with his thumb.

"So anyway," Sam continued, "Georgie thinks the light-headedness might be down to lack of iron. I should eat more liver. Or nip outside periodically and gnaw on your railings."

"Neighbours might enjoy that. Where does Georgie get her medical opinions?"

"Turns out her father is the nice old chap who stands in for Dr Stirling at the Lyminster surgery. Small world."

"Well, you did wonder." Foyle paused, and placed a finger to his temple. "_How _old did you say he was?"

Sam smirked. "Not you, as well! He's seventy. And you're the _last _person who should be raising an eyebrow."

Foyle let the comment pass, unbuttoning his waistcoat as he sat, and rubbed a hand across his stomach. "Interesting puddings they serve here. Bloated. Feel like a lie-down."

"Poor dear. Over-fed. And overwrought with Andrew." Sam ran a hand up his forearm. "Come and lie by me."

Needing no further invitation, Foyle kicked off his shoes and sank back onto the mattress next to her, tucking both hands behind his head and allowing his eyelids to fall shut.

Propped with her back against the headboard, Sam looked down at him adoringly and reached across to rub his belly.

"Stop that, or there'll be trouble. Trying to rest. Need my energy for late fatherhood."

He might as well have told her 'come and get me' for all the good the order did. Sam wriggled down to lie beside him, turning on her side, and rested her head on the inside of his upper arm.

"I'm doing no harm."

"Not so far, but I'm watching you." He opened one eyelid a crack to check that she was settled. After a while, satisfied that Sam was planning to snooze with him, he closed his eye again, and brought his arm down to support her upper back and shoulders.

"Mmm. Nice," hummed Sam. "You locked the door?"

"You saw me do it."

"Jolly good."

For half a minute, Foyle actually imagined he would be enjoying an afternoon nap. Then it began. A tongue snaked out to trace around the shell of his ear.

"Sam. Knock it off."

"You don't _always_ call the tune, you know. Was _I _stand-offish in the early hours when you were nuzzling for attention?"

Foyle grinned, his eyes still closed. "No, but I'm an old chap. There are limits."

"So _you_ say. Let's see if we can find them." Her hand stole underneath his waistband. "Whoops," she smiled smugly, "something's pushing at the boundaries here."

* * *

They lay together afterwards in the same position where they'd started. Sam's breath was gentle in his ear, and they had snoozed a little after all.

Christopher held her slim fingers in his larger hand and wondered what he'd done to merit so much happiness. Sam stirred and stretched against him, and he gently eased her into a more comfortable position on her back. Turning to her, he propped himself up on his elbow, close against her side.

"You happy, Sam?" he studied her face intently, loving every curve and plane. Her dark honey lashes flickered open, and she smiled a little wistfully.

"I am. Of course I am. It's just..."

Foyle's brows contracted, and he felt the pleasure seeping from his veins. She wasn't happy?

Sam struggled to express the wistfulness that tugged at her. "I just... I wish I could do something you can't."

Foyle bit his lip and slid a hand to rest across her belly. "I can't do this."

She shook her head impatiently. "That isn't what I mean, my darling."

"Well, _I_ think that's amazing enough, frankly."

"No. I mean, professionally, or publicly."

"Ah," he said.

And what else _could_ he say? He knew something of this longing for fulfilment from his first marriage. Rosalind had found escape from things domestic in her painting, to some degree. And Foyle didn't doubt that, if she had lived, she would have found more outlets for her talents and her energies once Andrew grew more independent of her. But Sam had had a taste of freedom early in her life.

Twice in his lifetime, then, he'd managed to clip a woman's wings. And this time it had happened in a climate of change, the pull of which made Sam's aspirations even more compelling than the ones that Rosalind had felt.

Christopher sat back against the headboard, and hauled his young wife up to lean against him. "Sam, I've no doubt that before my time is up, you'll be doing plenty of things I can't, professionally and publicly. I've had a head start of a quarter of a century, but you have so much time ahead of you—and there'll be opportunities." Sam snuggled into him, and he went on, "When I retire, you'll still be in your thirties. Plus," he tucked in his chin and scrutinized her, winking into her upturned face, "I'm housetrained. I can cook. Come home from work, I'll have your dinner on the table. And your blouses ironed."

Sam sighed. "That sounds like heaven. What a lovely vision of the future."

"Just one thing I should warn you of," he told her solemnly. "You might get sick of eating fish."

* * *

Andrew knew the Howards' kitchen well. He'd sat there often enough in his youth, getting under capable women's feet.

When he was fifteen, having lost his mother the previous year, he'd sat there in the summer months and dodged the garden heat, while Mrs A had quenched his thirst with home-made lemonade, and indulged him with the occasional glass of scrumpy cider.

"Long time since you set in my kitchen, ennit, Andy-boy?" Mrs Allingham peered lazily round at Andrew from her position at the sink.

Georgie looked up, startled from her task. She was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea beside her, a large enamel bowl of carrots before her, and a sharp knife in her grasp.

"Hello, Mrs A. That was a lovely lunch, and thank you." Andrew lowered himself into a chair opposite Georgina.

"Would you like them sliced or _julienne,_ Mrs Allingham?" Georgie asked, pointedly ignoring Andrew.

"Sliced, I reckon. Wouldn't know a Julie-Anne if et bit me."

"I'll help," Andrew told her. "We'll be finished quicker. Then you can come for a spin with me while it's still light. Got another knife?"

"No," said Georgie, sullenly.

"Top left drawer of that there dresser." Mrs Allingham craned her neck to indicate behind her.

Andrew fetched the knife and settled to his task, moving his chair round next to Georgie, much to her chagrin. She shifted hers another foot away from him to make a point.

With a quick glance round at them, Mrs Allingham sized the situation up. Andrew was looking intently at Georgina, rather than at the carrot in his hand.

"You mind yerself, now. That knife's middlin' sharp. What're you thinkin' on, Andrew? Can' abide sliced fingers in me casserole. You know this lad, then, Georgie?"

"We've met," said Georgie coolly.

Mrs Allingham thought she might just add a little seasoning. "Never see sech a sight in the world as this'en, Georgie, when 'e come into my kitchen fust. I tell you summat—fell in a bunch o'neddles, didn'ee? T'ather side of th'ouse. 'Is legs were middlin' fierce wi' weals. But never made a peep, mind. 'Ee weren' _alf_ limpin', though!"

"I remember that!" cried Andrew. "What was I? Fifteen?"

"An' still in short trousers, poor soul. You'd been jumpin' the brook."

Georgie snorted, mouthing '_jumping the brook_', and rolled her eyes.

"What's funny?" scowled Andrew.

Mrs Allingham pressed on with her story. "Mrs Howard'd just 'ad the new fridge delivered, so I filled a bowl wi' ice and Andy sat in it."

"I bet _that_ cut you down to size," remarked Georgie, and chopped the end off a large carrot.

When they left the kitchen ten minutes later, Mrs Allingham was making liver faggots for Samantha's dinner.

******** TBC ********

More soon.

**GiuC**


	26. Chapter 26

**L'Aimant – Chapter 26**

**Summary:**

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

_Chapter 26: _Andrew comes to a decision. Sam is immortalised.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

This is a long one, to make up for the extra wait.

...

Dame Laura Knight (then Laura Johnson) was just 13 years old when she was enrolled as a student at the Nottingham School of Art in 1890. She is thought to have been their youngest ever pupil.

It was there that she met her future husband, Harold.

...

'Town' with a capital T is London.

...

Thanks again to _dances _for her valued critique and beta-work. She added some lovely, inspired tweaks to this chapter.

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_Mrs Allingham thought she might just add a little seasoning. "Never see sech a sight in the world as this'en, Georgie, when 'e come into my kitchen fust. I tell you summat—fell in a bunch o'neddles, didn'ee? T'ather side of th'ouse. 'Is legs were middlin' fierce wi' weals. But never made a peep, mind. 'Ee weren' alf limpin', though!"_

_"I remember that!" cried Andrew. "What was I? Fifteen?"_

_"An' still in short trousers, poor soul. You'd been jumpin' the brook."_

_Georgie snorted, mouthing __**'jumping the brook'**__, and rolled her eyes._

_"What's funny?" scowled Andrew._

_Mrs Allingham pressed on with her story. "Mrs Howard'd just 'ad the new fridge delivered, so I filled a bowl wi' ice and Andy sat in it."_

_"I bet that cut you down to size," remarked Georgie, and chopped the end off a large carrot._

_When they left the kitchen ten minutes later, Mrs Allingham was making liver faggots for Samantha's dinner._

* * *

**Chapter 26**

**Monday afternoon, 1****st**** January, 1945**

"Can't imagine why I'm coming out with you," protested Georgie. "You were perfectly horrid."

"I said a horrid thing, but I'm not completely horrid. So you're giving me a second chance," explained Andrew, shepherding her out towards the car.

Busy woman that she was, Mrs Allingham was not about to tolerate her kitchen being upset by a lovers' tiff. She'd stood about ten more minutes of the loaded atmosphere before turfing them both out, with a sardonic, "Come back when the war's over, you two, ye're turnin' the milk sour."

Andrew's borrowed roadster was parked in the stable yard around the back, and they left the house muffled in their overcoats.

Georgie clapped her hands around her ears. "Gosh, it's freezing! Why did I agree to this?"

"Because you're bored, Sam's occupied, I asked you, and you like the feel of speed," he told her patiently, taking the woollen scarf from round his neck and tying it fetchingly around her head. "There," he said, tweaking her already reddening nose, "you look about twelve, now."

"Perhaps I should be _jumping the brook_, in that case," she scoffed.

They drove out of the village past the BaptistChurch and up towards the woods, and in no time the old church on St Peter's Hill hove into view. Georgie pulled her coat more tightly round her, and climbed out to have a closer look. Andrew followed, first scanning the churchyard for signs of life, then fixing his gaze on Georgie's small form ahead of him.

"This is Norman," she announced to him knowledgeably over her shoulder. "Look, it says it used to be called the church of Pep— of Pep-in— Pep-in-ge-be-ria. Golly. What a mouthful!"

"_You're_ a mouthful, Georgie." Andrew ambushed her from behind, sweeping her off her feet and up into his arms. Grinning, he pecked her on the lips then twirled her round the churchyard to the sound of her delighted squeals. The noise alarmed a family of snowy-coloured stoats inside a rotting tree-stump, and sent them scurrying off into the undergrowth.

When at last they came to a breathless halt, he gazed into her eyes. "You are the most"—he gasped—"exquisite thing I've held in my arms, bar none, _ever_."

"Coo," breathed Georgie, regarding him with stunned amusement. Still in his warm arms, she peered around the churchyard a little nervously, then began to kick her legs. "I think you'd better put me down now."

"What's the matter, hmm?" teased Andrew. "Sun will be going down soon. Scared of the undead?" He drew back his upper lip to bare his canines at her.

"Rot." She cuffed him on the ear. "More scared of the living. What if the vicar comes out, and catches us?"

"He can't be in two places at once," smirked Andrew, anchoring her stubbornly to him. "Alice says today's services are down the road at the new church."

Georgie's eyes shone. "So we can sneak inside _this _one and have a nose around?"

Andrew frowned in mock annoyance. "Georgie, I've just paid you an enormous compliment, and you're telling me that you prefer to sneak into a church and look at tombs?"

"It's interesting."

"And I'm not?"

"Don't be silly, Andrew." She canted her head slightly towards the wide wooden front door, her eyes dancing. "There are pews inside. You know... _pews_."

Andrew's lips formed into an O. Obediently he lowered her to the ground, then led her with a new determination up the path and through the church door into its echoing interior. Sticking his head inside, he exhaled experimentally to test the temperature. He hadn't smoked a cigarette since lunch, but he might as well have done. His breath came out opaque and white as smoke against the chill church air.

"It's hardly what I'd call a cosy rendezvous," he told her, sceptically.

"It's all right. We can huddle together for the extra warmth, and I'll tell you all about my family—if you want to know."

"I'd really like that," he told her seriously, hugging her against him as they walked inside.

Georgie sat on Andrew's lap in the back pew, and launched into a summary of the Family Rose. Her mother Moira, she explained, was her father's second marriage—his first wife, Judith, having died of flu in 1918.

"They met when she was working as a young nurse in a military hospital. Graylingwell in Chichester." explained Georgie. "Have you heard of it?"

Andrew offered a quiet nod and a smile. He could've added that some of his own chaps had spent spells there, in the battle neurosis unit when the stress of combat missions got too much. Very nearly ended up there himself, hadn't he? Oh, he knew Graylingwell, all right.

Georgie seemed satisfied, and so she continued. "Mother cared for wounded soldiers home from war. Her brother Laurence had joined the Ayrshire Yeomanry, you see, and got shipped out to Gallipoli. After that, she felt she didn't want to stay in Ayr, and so she moved down south to work at Graylingwell. Father and she—his name is Thomas, by the way—married in 1923. I have a half-brother, Desmond. He's forty; naval captain in command of a destroyer. His wife, Faye, is beside herself with worry for his safety. Their son is sixteen and wants to join the navy, like his father—whom he's barely seen in five years. Tom tried to join the Home Guard twice, pretending he was seventeen!"

"Didn't they recognise him, after the _first_ try?" chuckled Andrew, trying to imagine what ruses Tom might have employed.

"No, actually. He bleached his hair blonde with peroxide and went back again. Forged Faye's signature on the enrolment form. But the platoon commander had an idea there was _some_thing up, so when Captain Bullock turned up on Faye's doorstep later in the day, it rather blew the gaffe. She'd wondered why Tom wouldn't take his school cap off inside the house. He'd told her that his head was cold. Anything else you want to know?"

Andrew scratched his head. "Well," he said, "how did Desmond like it, when your dad remarried?"

"Mother says he was quite the young man already, when she married Father. One leg out of the door, and on his way into the navy, if you see what I mean. She was only five years older than he was! But what clinched it was Faye. Faye and Mother became friends, and Desmond just fell in with it. He married Faye in '25, just after I was born. And four years later, they had Tom. By that time they'd moved to Portsmouth, but when the war broke out, Faye and Tom decamped to Arundel, out of the line of fire. Desmond insisted it would be safer. But… you know the strangest thing?" Georgie shivered and her eyes grew large.

"What?" Furrowing his brow, Andrew rubbed a hand up and down her arm to warm away the shiver.

"When Tom was twelve—just after they'd moved to Arundel to stay with us—an air raid shelter at a Portsmouth school was bombed. It was in a place called Arundel _Street_, and fifty people were killed. News filtered through to Desmond somehow, and he got the wrong end of the stick: thought they'd bombed a school in Arundel. (Arundel's not very big.) So he was frantic."

"Gruesome coincidence, I have to say," mused Andrew, "but it doesn't do to read too much into things like that. You also mentioned that your dad is Jewish?"

"Mmm. Yes... Jew-_ish_. His parents practised, but my mother says he left all that behind him once he moved away from London with his first wife. I have cousins in the East End whom I've never seen—mainly because they're all Desmond's age or older. And as for Father, Mother says the only time she saw him in a prayer shawl was at Graylingwell when he would sit with dying soldiers to recite the Shema—that's the last prayer that you're s'posed to say before you die. He hasn't got much time for organised religion, but he's... he's _curious_. He told me when he did a stint in Lyminster once, he crept into the Quaker meeting house in Littlehampton and sat there quietly for a while to find out how it felt."

"How _did_ it feel?" Andrew genuinely wanted to know. Many were the times he'd hankered after a bit of peace.

Georgie grinned. "That's the thing. He nodded off. And when he woke up, there were four other people in there with him. Terribly embarrassing. But when he got up to go, they all smiled and nodded. He said he felt... accepted."

"Sounds good to me," Andrew grinned back at her. "Religion can get very complicated."

Georgie went on. "Mother's a Presbyterian—she used to take me to St Nicholas Church with her on a Sunday, so I got into the habit. Father mostly stays at home and reads _The Lancet _while we're out. On Wednesdays he plays chess with our vicar, Father Maurice. They sit there discussing important matters, such as whether Hell exists."

Andrew contemplated Georgie's rosy cheeks and thanked God she was this side of the Channel. In Nazi eyes there wasn't any _–ish_ about a Jew, and if Hell didn't already exist, Hitler's lot were in the business of creating it.

"Your turn." Georgie's huge dark eyes challenged him. Her nose shone like a glacé cherry.

_Good enough to eat._ Andrew took a moment to be entranced, but she was staring him down, so he sighed in resignation, and gathered his thoughts. "In a nutshell, then. You know that Dad's a widower—at least, he _was_ until just. My mother died when I was fourteen. Dad kept it all inside and carried on. Alice and Uncle Charles were bricks; helped in any way they could. I finished school, went up to Oxford to read English, and then packed it in to join the RAF."

"Will you go back and finish studying, when the war's over?" wondered Georgie, stroking the lovely firmness of the arm wrapped around her waist.

Andrew cast his eyes down. "I don't know, Love. Sometimes I think it never _will_ be over." _Or you won't be here to see things when it is_, his demon hissed darkly. "It's been a bloody time." _A dozen of your friends killed or maimed_, persisted the demon_._ "Just finished one tour overseas. Anybody's guess, where they'll dump me next."

Involuntarily, he squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them to her concerned ones as she studied him expectantly.

"And as if Jerry wasn't bad enough, you get some bloody idiots in charge. Penguins. Never flown and never will. Sit behind mahogany desks, and when they see the losses, blame the pilots."

He assumed a mock-authoritarian tone. "'You know, Foyle, it's not the aircraft, it's the man!' I could've floored him on the spot, superior officer or not." Andrew felt himself grow agitated. "What does _he _know about combat flight decisions—ack-acks, bogeys, blinding sun and deafening noise, the stink of fuel inside your nostrils..."

"Andrew..." Georgie reached one woolly mitten up to stroke his face. "Stop. It's awful for you. Stop." Gently, she soothed the tension from his jaw and kissed him, soft lips moulding to his own. Not the puckered chaste kiss of the night before, but questing and exploratory, pulling at his lower lip and shyly asking for reciprocation.

Andrew's turmoil faded and his eyes grew soft. "So," he added calmly, "wherever it is, just hope I get a decent set of wings to fly." He focussed on the small, vivacious bundle in his arms. If memories of active service were his hell, then this was heaven. Dark eyes, a cherry nose and dimples, all only inches from his face. He eased the woollen scarf back from her head to free the raven curls. They tumbled loose. No matter how he combed his fingers through those glossy waves, however he tousled them, they sprang back again.

"Your parents made a perfect beauty, Georgie. And I'm a perfect beast for hurting you. I want to say I'm sorry, and I'll try to do much better in future."

"Smile at me, then," she requested softly. "A proper, sunny Andrew smile."

Andrew gave her his best. It wasn't any effort. Georgie pulled off her mitten and traced the lines around the corners of his mouth and eyes, glimpsing his father in him. "You'll still be handsome when you're fifty and these lines are permanent, but you're positively gorgeous now."

"Oh, Love." He bent his head, and set about exploring what the word meant to him in the context of Georgina. In that kiss, he walked a tightrope between tenderness and fire, and could have taken things beyond what was quite acceptable in the rear pew of a building consecrated as the House of God.

But again, the sense of holding something precious and enduring in his arms restrained him. And if his hand strayed _just_ a little in the quest to reassure himself that Georgie's heart was beating every bit as fast as his, it was a reverent, uninsistent touch, through layers of clothing that stayed safely undisturbed.

"What are you doing this week, my Georgina Rose?" Andrew murmured, lips humming against her hair.

Georgie gave a great big sigh. "Driving Commander Howard to London. Aaaand... then... staying in a billet near Whitehall, waiting to be needed." She frowned intently. "I do an awful lot of that."

Andrew drew his face back from her hair, and sought her eyes. "The waiting could be over if you wanted it to be. _I _need you. Always. Marry me?"

"Andrew?" she gaped at him. "Did you just hear yourself? You've only kissed me _twice_... not counting that quick peck outside," she added, for the sake of accuracy.

_The best two kisses of my life,_ his eyes pleaded.

Georgie wriggled uneasily. "I can't _marry_ you... it's silly. It's too soon."

The good sense of her words made a slight dent in his impulse, but not enough to penetrate. "Well, if today's too soon, I'll ask again on Wednesday up in Town. And if the answer's still no, there's still Thursday, Friday, Saturday..."

"Andrew..." she warned, shifting in his lap, "don't make fun of me."

He gave her an intense look. "I'm completely serious," he whispered, and brought a finger up to trail along her bottom lip. "Can't stand the thought of anyone else kissing these."

_His finger tickles_. _And he seems to think I'm his. _Just a day ago, Georgie had imagined Andrew might be difficult to hang onto. That he'd soar up, off and away. But the opposite had turned out to be true. He seemed to crave her as a mooring.

In their short acquaintance, she had laughed with him, teased him, bullied him, kissed him beneath a staircase, fought with him, listened to him whinge, kicked him jolly hard, ignored him, contemplated kicking him again, scoffed at him, forgiven him, told him her life story, caressed him in a church, and now... refused—no, she corrected herself—_deflected _his proposal of marriage. A lot of Andrewness had somehow packed itself into the last twenty-four hours, and her mind was still reeling with the strangeness of it all.

Georgie contemplated Andrew steadily, and tried to introduce some order into her thoughts. It appeared quite likely, once they were apart, that Andrew would continue to occupy her mind one way or another. In the last day or so, the business of provoking or reacting to Andrew had become a major occupation for her. That much was for sure. But _marriage_? Marriage was an unknown quantity.

And yet his eyes were owning her as if she'd already accepted his proposal.

Which she hadn't. But on the other hand, 'no' sounded very wrong as an answer.

Georgie let out a long breath and took his cheeks between her hands. "Kiss number three," she announced, "and after that, you'll really have to bear with me, Andrew. I'm not saying 'no'. I just don't understand what saying 'yes' will mean. You have to give me time."

Andrew knew what Georgie's 'yes' would mean to him. Warmth, vitality and purpose—something he had witnessed in the union of his father and Samantha. He wanted that, like fuel in his Spitfire and a lifting force beneath his wings. "I'll help you see, Love," he promised her. "Give me half a chance."

The sunbeams sank below the chamfered sandstone windowsills, and kiss number three filled every minute left till sunset.

* * *

**Tuesday, 2****nd**** January, 1945**

"Christopher, I'd like to borrow your young lady wife, if she'd be willing."

Foyle paused on their way out of breakfast. "Ah? How may we help, Dame Laura?"

Laura addressed Sam at his side. "Not to beat about the bush, I'd like to paint you, Dear. The Ministry of Information, in their wisdom, are eager to own canvases of plucky young women doing their bit for the war effort."

Sam gazed, bewildered, from Laura to her husband and then back again. "Really, Dame Laura? But why me, especially?"

Laura took her arm. "Now then, Samantha,"—a low chuckle accompanied her words—"your husband is very proud of you. He's fond of telling people you're the sort of girl who knocks criminals senseless with an adroitly-wielded dustbin lid."

Sam looked at Christopher in astonishment. "You tell people about that?"

Foyle's eyes twinkled impishly over his upside-down smile. "Only... um... every opportunity I get?"

"So," Laura went on, "I fancy that the world would like to have a good look at a girl like you, poised—or in this case, _posed_—for action. We'll have you standing beside the car out back, I think. Dustbin-lids are easy to come by. You wouldn't happen to have brought your uniform?"

Sam's face fell. "Oh, bother! No. I didn't pack it for this trip. I'm sorry, Dame Laura."

"Ah, such a shame. But surely young Georgina would oblige and lend you hers?"

Brightening at the idea, Sam immediately frowned again and turned to Christopher. "But Darling, we're off back to Hastings this afternoon..."

Foyle shrugged. "_I _need to be back, but no reason why you can't stay an extra night? Andrew could drive you back tomorrow. If you want to stay, that is."

Sam beamed. _Not half!_ And so things were arranged.

Just after lunch, Andrew pulled up outside the railway station with his father.

"What are your plans this week?" asked Foyle, as Andrew handed him his suitcase at the station entrance.

"Well, obviously, I'll drop Sam off at ours tomorrow," Andrew began, then grimaced self-consciously. "I _say_ 'ours'. Always assuming you didn't chuck my stuff into the yard after..." He trailed off, wincing at the still-fresh memory of his letter.

"It's still your home, Andrew. To live in, or to treat as an oversized storage cupboard, as you wish. You said 'drop Sam off' though. You're not staying on in Hastings?"

"Thought I'd disappear up to Town directly afterwards, actually."

"Any particular, um, reason for that? Haven't frightened you off, I hope?"

"No, Dad. It's just I've... Actually, I've got a bit of unfinished business with Georgina." Andrew's happy smile told his father all he needed to know.

Foyle's hand descended on his shoulder. "Well, um. Since you asked for my advice the other day, I, er, can only add... don't start anything you don't intend to finish? Voice of experience talking here."

"Don't worry, Dad. I've got every intention of finishing this. Properly."

"You're serious about this one, Andrew?" Foyle's expression melded concern with fondness. "Because I don't have to tell you how easy it is to balls things up by hasty... um... or ill-prepared...?"

"I know, Dad. Georgie's different. She makes me different, too."

Foyle nodded thoughtfully, acknowledging his son's commendable intentions and confidence in his self-restraint. He deposited his suitcase on the ground, then lifted his overcoat by the lapel to fumble in the inside pocket of his jacket.

_Hunting for his return ticket_. Andrew took the opportunity to light a cigarette and took a deep, long drag. His eyes followed the steady trickle of people entering and exiting the station.

Foyle found what he'd been looking for and smoothed his clothing into place.

"When you bring Sam home tomorrow?"—he stretched his eyes and gave the younger man a pointed look—"Drive. Carefully. Don't want to lose _any_ of you."

His father's emphasis on 'any' underlined for Andrew the precious nature of the cargo being entrusted to his care. Andrew flicked his cigarette aside, and clasped his father's hand in both of his in reassurance and farewell. "Sam'll be safe in my hands, Dad. I promise you."

Foyle's handshake was a firm one in return. He tipped his hat and sauntered off towards the platform with a quiet smile.

Andrew glanced after him, thrown, briefly, by the odd sensation of paper sticking to his palm. He lowered his gaze.

Sitting in his right hand was a neatly-packeted rubber johnny.

* * *

Alice strolled into the former stable yard to see a tableau-in-the-making. The Riley stood parked diagonally across the cobbles, its driver's door standing open. Wearing her overcoat, Laura was sitting on a dining chair, her sketch-pad on her lap. No sign of the girls.

"Where are they, Laura? You can hardly sketch thin air. It's awfully chilly out here. Wouldn't you prefer to wait inside?"

Laura turned her head unhurriedly. "Ah! Alice! Nice to see you. Don't concern yourself, my dear. We artists are immune to cold. Indeed, Harold could tell you a tale or two from his days of shivering in the _Sixième_. Freezing in a Paris garret is a necessary rite of passage; one learns to acclimatise oneself. And one learns _strategies..._" Laura raised and flexed her left hand. "Fingerless gloves. Essential item."

Alice laughed. "The spirit of Ebenezer Scrooge, alive and well in Pembury!"

Laura went on. "And if _Paris Saint-Germain_ was cold, by Jingo, Nottingham was colder, and the wind across the Malverns can be cruel. But Scrooge, for all his faults, was a skilled businessman. You should hear me in negotiations for my fee. Ahah!"

"Oh, Laura, stop!" Consumed with mirth, Alice took to batting her hands around her upper arms. "Shall I call Samantha down to you?"

"Leave them be. The girls are upstairs getting Sam into her uniform, and such things cannot be rushed. In the meantime, I..."—she held up her pencil—"am envisaging the scene and setting up the angle. Now then... Samantha drives a Wolseley. But for the purpose of this sketch the Riley will suffice—a Morris is a Morris is a Morris. Happily, Whitehall is crawling with ugly four-wheeled beasts,"—she licked her pencil—"not to mention two-legged ones." Laura gestured with her hand dismissively. "I shall fill in the details of the motor vehicle later."

* * *

Meanwhile, upstairs, the girls were busy kitting Sam out to be sketched.

"The blasted thing will NOT do up. Breathe in." Georgina struggled with the zipper of her uniform skirt around Sam's middle. "What size did you say you were?"

"Twenty-two-inch waist. The same as you."

"I think you might have grown a bit. I'll get a safety-pin. It won't show round the back, under the tunic."

"Oh, golly, it's beginning, then," groaned Sam. "I'm going to turn into a whale."

"You won't. You're tiny. Anyway, with rationing, what on earth is there to get fat on? It's the baby. Nothing you can do. Stop fretting, I'll just pin it to."

Samantha twisted to scrutinise herself in front of the mirror. "What am I going to do? Everything fitted me before Christmas. And my own skirt's the same size as yours. Bother."

"You're going to have to give in to it, Sam. Extend the button-hole with elastic. And apply for a green ration book. Then you can have extra milk, orange juice and cod liver oil. And double eggs!"

"You're very knowledgeable about this sort of thing, I must say, Georgie."

Georgie shrugged. "Father signs the green books off. I've seen the paperwork."

Sam smoothed down the peplum of the uniform tunic, and caught sight of Georgie's reflection in the mirror. Her friend was perched on the edge of the bed, staring into space and chewing on a fingernail.

"So. Now you've sorted me out, wouldn't it be a good idea to tell me what _you're_ fretting on?"

"Mmm?" Georgie looked up absently. "Not fretting, really. Not _as such_. Andrew asked me to marry him yesterday."

Sam's head snapped round so fast it gave her vertigo. _Marry?_ Her jaw fell slack. What was Andrew playing at? "W-what did you say to him?" she stammered, awestruck.

Georgie applied her front teeth to her fingernail from a different angle.

"Georgie, get a nail file, or before you know it you'll be down to the knuckle."

The younger woman gave her a rueful look. "I said he'd have to give me time."

She leant back across the bed to rifle through her handbag. "I mean—one minute, not a man in sight and wondering what it feels like to be kissed; the next,"—she gestured with her nail file—"proposed to by the first man I've been kissed by _properly._ It's all a bit... Sam," Georgie's eyes were suddenly beseeching, "I can't say 'yes' this soon, can I? I haven't the foggiest idea how it would feel to be married."

Sam gave her a sympathetic look. She barely knew how marriage felt herself. She knew how it felt to be in love. And she was learning—fast—how it felt to be expecting. But married? If she were honest, married life felt little different from her very first weekend together with Christopher—apart from being calmer. And admittedly, 'together' felt like home. But that was also how she'd felt the moment Christopher had kissed her in his hallway. Fulfilment of a longing and a lack she hadn't fully realised she had was part of it, but also there was comfort, and the sense that it was somehow just… 'right'.

_Georgie, on the other hand, has known Andrew about five minutes._

"I'm really sorry, Georgie," Sam told her young friend. "I feel I pushed you at him. I thought you'd have a little fun; be good for each other. I didn't think he'd get so..." _...what? intense?_ Sam had no clue what was going on in Andrew's mind. Was he even thinking clearly?

Fortunately, Georgie appeared to be. "He's coming straight up to London, once he's run you back to Hastings. And then we're going to talk some more."

Sam jolly well hoped so. "Talking sounds a _very_ good idea," she gushed, relieved. But one element was missing from the younger woman's account of things. "How does he make you _feel_, Georgie?" Sam prompted.

Her new friend frowned, considering her answer. Fancying the sight of Andrew was all very well. Visually, he'd made a very favourable first impression. In fact, a girl might be forgiven for losing her head over his looks. And then there was the uniform, which didn't make objectivity any easier...

Georgie had been known to moon and dream about the unattainable, but meeting Andrew had, strangely, caused her to remove him from that category. They had 'clicked' almost immediately, and sparked off each other, causing her to skip the mooning phase. Things being thus, Georgie found it easier to tell Sam what she thought and what she liked, rather than what she felt.

"He's... on my mind an awful lot. I think he's gorgeous-looking, and interesting and exasperating, and I love it when he smiles and when he kisses me. And I like to tease him. And I know I'll start to worry for him when he's out of reach. And when I'm angry with him, I want him not too far away, so I can lay into him if I need to. Does any of that make sense?"

Sam had to smile. _Exasperating and engaging. Andrew to a T. _

"Perfect sense," Sam reassured her. In fact, with the romantic slant removed, it wasn't all that far from her own opinion of the younger Foyle. "But it's a good job one of you has got their head screwed on. Andrew lives..."—Sam chose her words as carefully as she could—"I mean, the flying _puts his life_ a little on the edge. He's been flying combat missions on-and-off for nearly five years now."

A pensive, sad expression formed on Georgie's face. "Oh, dear. You're telling me you think he's making wrong decisions because he's tired."

Alarm bells sounded in Sam's head. It was not her place to guess at Andrew's state of mind in this. Down that path lay disaster. "Nunno!" she put in. "That _isn't_ what I mean. Because it could just as likely be that the war has concentrated his mind on what's important to him. What I meant to say was, _you_ should do what's right for _you._ Don't let yourself be swept away in this. Clear thinking is the only way to reach the right decision. I think you're being very sensible and grown up about all this. I really do."

Sam bent and hugged her new young friend. "Selfishly, I'd love to have you as a"—she scrunched her brow and made a quick calculation_—_"erm, as a stepdaughter-in-law"—God, how _old_ that made her feel!—"but _not_ just so that Andrew can be happy."

"Help me, then, Sam. What will saying 'yes' mean?" Georgie's beseeching eyes latched onto hers.

It was a devilishly awkward question to answer—one that Sam would sooner have avoided. But the young woman's face was such a picture of entreaty. Sam screwed her courage and prepared to have a go.

"Best case?" Looking up for inspiration, Sam flexed her hands. "Intense passion, initially. Immense worry in the immediate future while he's away in combat. Eventual comfort and contentment in the long term… and you'll never want to kiss another man."

"Worst case?" prompted Georgie.

Sam took a deep breath. "Worst case, you could find yourself a widow before the year is out. Sorry, Darling. There's no point glossing over things."

Sam wondered briefly whether she should add a codicil on pregnancy and childbirth to the potted scenario, but really couldn't decide whether it belonged under best case or worst case, and so she left it there.

Well, _almost_ left it. Nothing should be left to chance. Sam delved decisively into a deep side pocket of her handbag, where a small, square paper packet had lain undisturbed since Christopher had handed it to her 'just in case', back in November.

"Georgie... I want you to know that I _absolutely_ do _not_ expect you'll plan on using this, but it's... so easy to get carried away or caught out. And that can happen to the best of us. I'd hate to see it happening to you."

Georgie stared at the packet Sam had placed in her hand, and swallowed. "I know the facts of life, Sam. I'm a doctor's daughter, Mother was a nurse, and I've seen books. And _none_ of it actually seems real to me on paper." She bit her lip and looked expectantly at Sam. "I think you'd better tell me everything I _really _need to know about the art of saying 'no'."

Sam looked at her pityingly. "Honestly, Georgie, I'd be wasting my breath."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later Sam took up position next to the Riley, wearing Georgie's uniform and a pair of sensible lace-ups, and brandishing a mean-looking dustbin lid.

"That's good, Dear," called Laura encouragingly. "Hold that stern expression. Legs apart—recall the stance... that's perfect. Hold it there now, if you would. I'm going to make a few quick pencil sketches, then a colour-chart for reference, and the rest can be completed in my _atelier_."

"Will it be a watercolour, or an oil, Dame Laura?" asked Sam, maintaining her Amazonian stance.

"An oil, Samantha. On canvas. Any reason why you ask?"

"Just interested. Christopher's first wife, Rosalind, was an amateur watercolourist, you see."

"Ah, yes indeed. I've seen some of her work on her dear brother's walls. Rosalind had talent. In that case, I shall make a watercolour sketch, and when the final painting is complete, you shall have the draft to hang at home."

Sam beamed, and her pleased and breathless voice sounded oh, so young. "Christopher would really appreciate that. And so would I. Thank you."

"Not at all, Dear. I've often worked that way at the ballet."

Georgina stood at Laura's shoulder, peering intently at the sketch as it took shape. Her lips were slightly parted, and her ebony hair was swept up in a mass of curls atop her head, revealing the elegant curve of her neck.

Standing in the window of the scullery, Harold Knight took out his pad and began to sketch. "A beauty. Such a beauty,"he murmured as he worked.

Laura added a few final strokes. "Samantha, I shall send you something for your trouble."

"Honestly, Dame Laura, there's no need. It's been a pleasure."

"Nonsense, Dear. The Ministry are notoriously tight-fisted when it comes to fees, but they've met their match with me. If they want the art, then they must learn to feed the artist. Do they imagine that we live on air?"

Sam felt her stomach rumble. Certainly _she_ didn't live on anything so insubstantial.

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

Laura Knight was a notoriously hard-nosed businesswoman when it came to negotiating payment for her work!

...

In the 1920s Laura was given permission to work backstage at Diaghilev's _Ballets Russes_. This 'backstage apprenticeship' at the ballet meant that, of necessity, Laura had to learn to produce sketches quickly to capture line and pose, then augment the detail in more accurate sketches afterwards. Her drawings were habitually so accurate that, if mistakes did make it through into the final picture, the famous ballet instructor Cecchetti was apt to blame the dancer rather than the artist.

...

I've given you a lot of Laura Knight in this, but please don't neglect her husband Harold. Harold understood how to paint the beauty of a woman's neck, as his many portraits will testify

...

_"[Dr Rose's] first wife, Judith, having died of flu in 1918."_

The influenza pandemic between 1918 and 1920 killed about four percent of the world's population. It distinguished itself from previous influenza outbreaks by killing mainly healthy young adults. One of its victims was my grandfather. He left behind a wife and four dependent children.

The effects on my mother's life were hard. The loss of her father ruined her chance of a comfortable upbringing and a good education, since her family instantly lost its source of income in an era when social welfare was still in the dark ages. The Widows, Orphans and Old Age Pensions Act was not passed until 1925.

...

_"Jew__**-ish**__"_

At the 1935 party rally in Nuremberg, the Nazis institutionalised their crackpot racial theories in a set of laws. The Nuremberg Race Laws existed to categorise every citizen of the Reich in terms of racial 'purity', and were the instrument of humiliation and oppression for millions. They became the ultimate criteria by which people were selected for mass extermination.

Bluntly put, Germans were required to demonstrate their Aryan ancestry, or else be labelled as being of 'impure' blood, with all the social and professional discrimination attendant to that label.

Back in the '80s I had a part-time teaching job in a grammar school in Westphalia, and lodged with a German family. The most imposing family tree I have ever seen was rendered in oils on a wall-panel in the entrance hall of their family home. Clearly the object was an heirloom. At the time its significance did not register, but, knowing what I know now, I can only assume it was drawn up under the "friendly" encouragement of the Nuremberg Laws.

How would these infamous laws have affected the characters mentioned in this chapter? Dr Rose's individualistic 'take' on religion would have had no mitigating influence whatsoever on his classification as a _Voll/jude _(full Jew), Georgie's mother would have been faced with the choice of divorcing her husband or accompanying him to a concentration camp, and Georgie, as a first-degree _Misch/ling_ (mixed-blood) would not have been permitted to marry an Aryan. Andrew would have been guilty of _Rassen/schande_ (literally 'racial infamy') for forming an intimate relationship with her.

Not that I want to send anyone hurrying away from my story (it does love to be read!) but I should like to recommend to you a book called _The Empress of Weehawken _by Irene Dische. It deals with the above theme, and is one of the funniest, and, ultimately, most poignant books I've had the pleasure of reading. It was sent to me a few years ago (in German translation – _'Großmama packt aus'_) by the lady in whose home I lodged whilst working in Westphalia. She lived through the war as a young girl, was brought up thinking that the songs of Jewish poet Heine were 'anonymous German folk songs', and lost her father on the Eastern Front. And, along with my mother, she is one of the wisest women I know.

...

_"You know, Foyle, it's not the aircraft, it's the man!"_

Shamelessly poached from an interview with Wing Commander Thomas Francis "Ginger" Neil, DFC, AFC, AE in James Holland's BBC documentary _"The Battle for Malta"_. As I write, this incredible man is still going strong at 93—and a more determined chin on a fellow, you have never seen. Long may Tom Neil continue. The documentary can be found on YouTube.

...

_"A Morris is a Morris is a Morris."_

William Morris, Viscount Nuffield (1877-1963), was an industrialist and philanthropist. An exact contemporary of Dame Laura, he was an eminent designer and manufacturer of cars—the first of which was the famous 'Bullnose' Morris. He went on to absorb other marques into his range, including Riley, Wolseley and, eventually, Austin, dominating the British car industry in the early- to mid-20th century.

Beginning in 1938, he lent part of his factory for the production of iron lungs—artificial breathing apparatus for polio victims suffering temporary or permanent respiratory paralysis—and donated more than 5,000 of the machines across the world. _dancesabove_ tells me that such a machine saved the life of her second cousin.

…

More soon.

**GiuC**


End file.
